


call me deacon blues

by ectobaby



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aromantic Jake, Comedian John Crocker, Consensual Sex, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Healing, Heavy Themes, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, M/M, One-Sided Jake English/Dirk Strider, Prostitution, Rent Boy Dirk, Sex Work, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 89,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24758809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectobaby/pseuds/ectobaby
Summary: He’s JohnfuckingCrocker. Funniest guy in Hollywood. He’s got Netflix specials coming out the wazoo. His comedy tour is sold out across the board.Everybody loves him, but nobody knows him.
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Comments: 605
Kudos: 525





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi, i'm really excited to start this fic. it's a little different, tonally, from my past stuff. i really wanted to utilize alpha john crocker's career as a stand-up comedian, but mix that with his canon depression. overall, this fic will have some heavy scenes but it's all about healing and learning to love. in this fic, dirk is a sex worker but everything between them is consensual and discussed. usually, i write john helping dirk through his issues but we're flippin' the script this time, lads.
> 
> title from "deacon blues" by steely dan  
> [pours one out] this one is for you, john mulaney 
> 
> see endnote for some disclaimers!

Everything is so _loud._

A deep bass pumps through his body, through his head, and John feels every beat like a hammer. It smashes into the side of his skull, making his vision go dark and blurry as he squeezes his way through the drunk crowd to throw himself against the wall. He catches his breath before finally turning, pressing his back against a solid, stable surface until his knees give out and he slides down into a crouch.

All around him are bodies dancing and writhing to the pounding house music, multi-colored lights pulsing to a muffled beat. All of it makes his head spin.

He _loves_ parties.

He’s John _fucking_ Crocker. Funniest guy in Hollywood. He’s got Netflix specials coming out the wazoo. His comedy tour is sold out across the board. He loves parties because the fact of the matter is, he’s the _life_ of the party.

Everybody loves him.

John groans and cradles his head in his hands. He shouldn’t have taken that last shot; he knew better. He had enough sense to turn down the line of coke, but damn if it isn’t easy to throw back an ounce of top-shelf tequila to take the edge off. Sometimes he gets carried away. He knows that.

Everything is so _fucking_ loud.

“Hey there. You alright?” The voice comes right against his ear; sweet, feminine, and slurred. He turns his aching head just enough to see a bright smile aimed in his direction, attached to an attractive face. She bats her pretty doe eyes and places a well-manicured hand on his shoulder. “You don’t look so good.”

It takes a moment for his sluggish mind to process what she’s saying to him. This happens on occasion. His mask slips and he has to tug it back into place. John flashes her a charming smile, the one that makes his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. He doubts she can tell in the strobing lights, but it’s literally fucking award-winning.

He winks. “I don’t?”

Flustered, she draws her hand back. Then, ah. There it is. In slow motion, he watches recognition click on her face; sees the exact moment she realizes who he is.

That didn’t last long.

Her hand is back in an instant, this time to intently stroke up and down his arm, smile shifting from concerned to…Well.

Every _fucking_ time.

Without saying anything, he brushes her off, pushing himself up to his feet and ignoring the dizzying way his head spins. There’s an affronted scoff somewhere down near his kneecaps but that comes second to the way his stomach lurches.

Bathroom. He needs to find the bathroom.

John finds the front door first. That’ll work. Lawns are made for heaving up your guts.

There are a few people outside, chatting in their own little worlds, all in various states of inebriation. None of them pay much attention when he collapses in the yard on his hands and knees. The grass is damp from the sprinkler and it seeps into his expensive slacks. His fingers curl into the dirt and he holds onto the earth like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored.

Maybe it is.

John takes a moment to just breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

The wave of nausea subsides.

“Fuck,” he whispers to no one. A humorless chuckle comes next as he slams the heels of his palms hard against the ground. “Fuck!”

Everybody loves him.

Except they don’t.

They can’t.

Everyone loves John Crocker, the stage presence.

They love the John Crocker who tells corny jokes for sold-out stadiums. They love the John Crocker who banters with late-night hosts and participates in goofy, mindless segments. They love the cameos, the specials, the snappy one-liners that are pre-written for when he announces: _“This year’s nominees are…”_

Nobody loves him.

That’s because nobody knows him.

And he’s perfectly fine with that. He knows himself intimately and he can safely say that they’re not missing much.

See? That’s funny. If he said that in front of a live studio audience, there’d be a chorus of laughter. The best thing he ever did was learn to monetize his self-loathing.

It’s a lonely existence, sure, but at least it’s lucrative.

“Jesus Christ. Please don’t tell me you’re about to hurl all over my lawn, Crocker.”

John lifts his head just enough to see the shiny leather of some pretentious loafers and tight, tailored slacks. That’s a voice he recognizes; almost monotone, perpetually bored despite the fact that it never shuts the fuck up.

Just what he needs, a lecture from _this guy_.

Still, he takes the hand when it’s offered to him, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. It’s not a very graceful endeavor. He’s at that stage in the drunken rollercoaster where he’s past the point of having a good time, and already on the plummet to rock bottom. He’s wants off but he’s strapped in. Existing in that awkward space between consciously aware and passing out on an old friend’s freshly-cut grass.

“I’m good,” he says. “I think I need to leave.”

“Might not be a bad idea. Give me your phone, I’m calling your driver.”

John lets out a small huff of irritation and digs around in his back pocket. He hands over his phone without much argument—not like he’s going to be able to read the blurry jumble of text on the screen—and steadies himself on a sturdy shoulder.

John squints at his friend.

God, why is he always—why is he always wearing those stupid shades? It’s nighttime out. How can he see shit? He thinks he’s so cool but he’s not. He’s a blathering nerd who likes to ramble about asinine shit until well after midnight before an exam just because he’s nervous. They’ve both grown older, both made it big in the industry, and he’s still wearing the aviators John gave him as a _joke_.

John spends most of the next fifteen minutes leaning against a warm body, mumbling nonsense, reminiscing on the old days.

The days before they blew up. Before the fame, greed, paparazzi, and tabloids all took over and made his life a living fucking hell that he can’t escape. Back when he could meet a girl at a party and there would still be some air of mystery as to why she’s so eager to go home with him.

At least, he’s pretty sure he’s saying these things. There’s not much of a response back to suggest that he is, just two hands firmly settled on his shoulders to hold him upright.

Then those two hands drag him along, escorting him to his car to shove him in the back seat.

“Thanks,” John mumbles, slumping into the leather. “I owe you one.”

“Nah. You don’t owe me shit. Hey—” There’s a whistle and a metallic slap to the side of his car. “Get him straight home, alright? See that he actually makes it to bed. Holy fuck, he’s a mess. I’d let him stay here but I don’t trust him not to get into any more shit.”

From the front seat, a familiar voice says, “I got it. Straight home.”

John opens his mouth to argue but the car door slams shut, ringing loud in his ears. The dull ache in his temple throbs tenfold.

Fucking asshole.

The car moves without his instruction.

He keeps his head pressed to the cool glass for most of the drive, staring vacantly at the bright lights of Los Angeles while his chauffeur winds them through the hillside, high above it all. He’s feeling less drunk by the minute and sober isn’t exactly a thing he wants to be. Not right not. The whole night’s gone to fucking shit. He wants to feel numb. He wants to feel alive. Two extremely conflicting desires that can at least agree on one thing.

He wants to be touched.

“Hey.” John leans up and smacks his hand against the tinted partition, pawing at the glass until it rolls down. “Hey, I need to make a pitstop.”

His driver flashes a concerned look to the rearview mirror, obviously opposed to the request. Tough shit.

“Yes, sir,” he says evenly. Obediently. “Where to?”

“Santa Monica,” John says; curt and clipped, leaving no room for argument.

There’s no use in elaborating that he means the corner of Santa Monica and Highland either. Not when he’s been escorted to that exact location enough times that his driver can probably navigate there safely with a blindfold. There’s a bar and the women that loiter outside are discrete, professional, and very good at what they do.

“Of course.”

The window rolls up and John settles back into the seat, trying to concentrate and sober up just a little more. Sure, a couple minutes ago he’d been fantasizing about smashing an entire bottle of whatever-the-fuck the moment he got home but, if he’s going to have company, better to be somewhat coherent.

There’s a working girl he’s rather fond of, and he means that in the most platonic, mundane sense possible. He’s stupid, but he’s not _fall-in-love-with-a-prostitute_ stupid. It’s just that she’s sweet and funny and content to deal with his hang-ups in the bedroom when they arise—or, rather, when they don’t.

Roxy is good to him and, in return, he’s financially good to her.

That’s the thing, the grand appeal. There’s no wondering if Roxy, or anyone else, is there for his money because then he knows that they are. He’s fine with that, even prefers it. It’s freeing to have all that shit upfront, all cards on the table, to know the body in his bed is, in fact, a monetary transaction and not a long-con plot for his wealth.

Again, a lonely existence but he makes do.

But when they pull up, John notices immediately that something is off.

The outside of the club is usually lined with three or four girls, all of which he’s indulged in at least once. But tonight? It looks like a ghost town, save one lonely figure posted against the brick wall.

John’s pretty sure he’s seen the guy before, hanging around the girls but never approaching the cars that pull up. Makes sense, he figures, not many customers on this side of the red-light district are looking for companions of the male persuasion. He’s probably just a friend. Definitely a still a worker though. The skin-tight pants, leather jacket, and sheer tank aren’t fooling anyone.

The guy subtly inclines his head in the direction of John’s car. Whether or not he’s trying to peer inside the window isn’t clear considering he’s wearing fucking _shades_ at night, in a way that’s irritatingly and freshly familiar. Except these are triangular and abstract, not round and designer, and probably used to obscure his identity, not to be a complete tool.

John decides to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He rolls his window down and crooks a beckoning finger. The guy takes a long drag off his cigarette and tilts his head away to blow out a cloud of dense smoke. He doesn’t budge except to hold up one finger.

_“Psssst.”_

Nothing.

John whistles. It comes out more like a cat-call but, oh well.

Nothing.

“Hey!”

From across the sidewalk comes a loud and drawn-out _shuuuuuush_.

John watches him stamp out the cigarette on the bottom of his boot with irritation, doing a double-take of their surroundings before flicking the butt away and shoving his hands in his pockets. Slowly, he approaches the car with all the grace of a pissed-off, feral dumpster cat.

“You lost or something?”

“No, I’m looking for someone,” John says carefully, blinking.

“Everyone is,” he snipes back, venomous. Then he gives a defeated sigh and runs a half-gloved hand through the only part of his hair that isn’t gelled to hell and back. “Look, you can’t just roll up here in a long, black car and draw attention to yourself like that. Thought you were the fuckin’ FEDs, man. Learn to be stealthy.”

John looks down at himself—the white button-up, the blue tie. Of course, the grass stains on his khaki’s aren’t visible and he looks pretty polished for a dude who just rolled around in the grass.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. It’s just been a long night.”

That gets John a snort of unamused laughter. Right, it’s probably been a lot longer for him.

“Anyway,” the guy says, “I think you said you were lookin’ for someone? The girls are off tonight. Just me and sorry, but I ain’t for sale.”

Oh.

Oh, god. 

John chokes on air, managing to get out, “I’m not gay. So, yeah. No, thanks.”

“Sure thing.” Triangle-Shades sounds unimpressed. “Who are you looking for anyway?”

“Roxy.”

“I’ll leave a message.”

“Okay, just say I stopped by,” John says, a bit dumbfounded.

Wow, now he’s really sober. That or he’s _really_ drunk, and this Texan gigolo is a fever dream. A few awkward moments pass where he thinks the guy’s gonna turn around and leave, but he doesn't. He just keeps standing there, hip cocked, waiting for more.

“That’s it, I guess,” John says. 

“Am I just supposed to say the huge nerd with glasses in the black car, or what?”

“I—” John stumbles for words, his thoughts freezing to a halt with a record scratch. His entire career is founded on being charismatic and charming and yet, he _stutters_. And, when he finally comes back online, he blurts the only thing he can think to say, “I’m sorry. Do you not know who I am?”

You know, like a Grade-A _fucking_ Douche Bag.

Triangle-Shades blinks at him. John can’t see it, on account of the triangle shades, but he knows that he does. It’s more of a feeling, a really strong intuition.

“My bad, man. Didn’t recognize you.”

John lets out a breath or relief and disappointment. It’d almost been exciting to not be recognized for once. Not entirely great for his ego but thrilling, nonetheless.

“It’s fine. It’s dark and you’re wearing, uh, sunglasses. Honest mistake.”

“Right,” he says, stretching the vowel in a southern drawl. “That was sarcasm, but I’ll let her know the huge _prick_ with glasses in the black car came looking for her. That should clear things right up. Later, man.”

He turns to leave, and John panics, finding his hand on the door handle to…what? Get out? Chase him down? He settles for whisper-yelling: “Wait!”

Over his shoulder, Triangle-Shades lifts an unimpressed, yet expectant, eyebrow.

Okay, good. He’s got his attention. Now what? What the fuck is he supposed to do now? Roxy isn’t here. Actually, there aren’t any girls here. Just this guy, John, and his poor fucking chauffeur in the front seat.

Jesus Christ, he’s going to have to give him a raise after tonight.

An idiotic thought enters his head and then refuses to leave. He wanted to feel alive? Goddamn, he got it. He’s so painfully aware that he’s alive; his heart cracks against his ribs with every adrenaline-fueled beat.

John swallows the lump in his throat. “How much?”

“What?”

“How much?” John asks again. “For a night with you.”

Triangles takes the bait and turns around slowly, contemplating and considering but not appearing totally on board if the way he frowns means anything. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You can’t afford me.”

John has to laugh at that. It’s not bragging, per se, when he says, “I’m sure I can. No offense.”

“None taken,” Triangles snaps back without missing a beat. “One grand and you’ve got all night. You can do whatever you want to me as long as it’s within the parameters of my pre-disclosed Terms and Conditions.”

John whistles through his teeth. “That’s a little steep.”

“Worth it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” John gives him a flirty wink over the rim of his glasses. Hit ‘em with the classic Crocker charm. Works every time. See? All he needed to do was sober up enough to get his bearings and—

“Two grand,” Triangles says flatly. “For that pompous fuckin’ wink.”

“W—what?” John stammers, offended. “The ladies love that wink! I have it on good authority that it’s a real panty-dropper. Not my words!”

Triangles—he _really_ needs to get his name—takes two quick steps toward the car, propping himself on an elbow to lean in. He slides his shades down the bridge of his sharp nose, just enough that he can look over the frames with piercing eyes the color of amber. John can’t tell if it’s the night’s shadows playing tricks on him, or if his lids are smudged with smoky black liner.

Either way, it’s a good look.

In a low, sultry voice Triangles asks— “Does it look like I’m wearing panties to you?”

And, like an absolute idiot, John pulls his eyes away from that Medusa glare to drag them down, down, down, until he’s peering over the edge of the window at slim hips suffocating in a pair of the tightest jeans in existence. Before he can assess the situation thoroughly, there’s a loud snap in his ear and John jerks his head up, embarrassed.

“Two grand and you can find out,” Triangles says. “That’s my final offer.”

Oh, fuck. Is he…is he really going to do this?

John looks him over again and makes a quick decision. “Tell me your name and I’ll make it three.”

There’s a slight twitch in Triangles’ jaw right before he smiles. “You know, most people stop bidding when they’ve already won.”

“I’ve never really known when to stop,” John says candidly, but the truth is masked in enough tension that it blends seamlessly into their antagonistic banter. Pure fucking adrenaline buzzes beneath his skin, his _whole body_ vibrates with it.

“Lucky me,” he says dully, pushing his shades back up his freckled nose. “You’ve got a deal. I want the payment upfront.”

That seems fair. “Got it.”

Triangles reaches into the car and holds out his hand to presumably shake. John doesn’t think he’s ever shaken hands on something like this before, but then again—he’s only ever been with women. Maybe there’s a different system with guys, some kind of upspoken male-for-male Bro Code. Regardless, John shakes on it. It feels like a deal with the devil.

And then, finally, with a shark-sharp grin, he gets a name.

“Dirk Strider.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: the sex work in this fic probably isn't going to be very accurate. so, please suspend your belief there. i also want to be pretty clear that it won't be demonized here. nonconsensual sex work is a real problem, but not a theme that will be explored in this piece of fiction. this story is going to focus more on the interpersonal relationships between the characters. that said, a disclaimer for the use of locations. the streets are real but the locations aren't. don't @ me if you live in LA. i'm sorry. hahaha. 
> 
> also, who is john's mysterious friend in aviators? who could that possibly be? is he going to be relative to the future of the plot? who knows. does dirk actually not recognize john? what if i just called dirk "triangles" the entire fic?
> 
> sidenote: my headcanon for john crocker's comedy is basically just john mulaney.
> 
> i've also done art for this AU over on my insta @ectobaby


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's probably gonna be dirk POV from here out!

This isn’t exactly where he thought his night would end up.

When Roxy asked him to keep a watch on the block while she and the girls went out and did something nice for themselves, he didn’t think to say no. It’d been a no-brainer. Partly because it’s her birthday and he loves her dearly. Partly because, damn, do they all deserve it. These men are fucking creeps. Not that the ones frequenting his block are any better but, yikes, man. Talk about a special breed of heinous.

Three hours in and Dirk is already more than ready to sock the next person that cocks an attitude with him straight in the jaw.

Most take it fine when he tells them the girls are out and waves them on.

_No, the place isn’t being monitored by the Five-O._

_Yes, they’ll be back tomorrow._

But, as the night creeps on, the hostility rises. The last guy tossed a bucket of slurs at him and called him a dirty liar. The guy before that wasn’t much better. So, by the time John Crocker pulls up in his shiny, expensive car—Dirk really isn’t in the mood.

But _now_ he is—because three grand for a dude who probably can’t get it up sounds like fucking paradise.

Dirk sits comfortably in the backseat, a respectful distance away. He’d lied before. Of course, he knows who Crocker is—he doesn’t live under a rock. You can’t go five feet without seeing his goofy ass plastered on a billboard. It’s just infinitely hilarious to pretend that he doesn’t. And John eats it right up, looking at him with wide-eyed bewilderment; like he’s staring down some poor, slutty street urchin who doesn’t have access to basic cable.

“Alright. Let’s lay down some ground rules first,” he says. John nods silently, loosening his tie, and goes to—rap his knuckles on the glass partition? No. Dirk grabs him by the wrist and stops him before he has the chance, ignoring the perplexed look he gets for it. “Did you not hear what I just said?”

John snatches his hand away, rubbing at his wrist. “Yeah? That just seems like something we can do on the way back to my place, I guess.”

On the way to…

“I’m sorry?” Dirk asks, incredulous, as he attempts to school his features into something mirroring collected. “Your place? No. I don’t go home with my clients. You can take me to a nice hotel, or you can fuck me right here.”

Across the backseat, John stares at him like a fish out of water. A big guppy with buckteeth, blubbering for breath. In the back of his mind, Dirk knows he shouldn’t be so hard on the poor guy and that maybe, possibly, he’s just projecting some of his earlier irritation onto someone that doesn’t quite deserve it.

John hasn’t done anything except be a presumptuous, self-important celebrity—and honestly, who can blame him? That’s what he is.

“I usually just go home.”

“I can get out of the car.”

“I have a nice house,” John counters earnestly. “I’m just more comfortable at home. This is all pretty new for me.”

He’s not talking about paying for sex and Dirk knows it. He’s talking about paying for sex with a guy.

Dirk sighs and lifts his shades, just enough to pinch the bridge of his nose. This is exactly why he didn’t want to get in the car. That and the fact that even though celebrities have big money, they have way bigger problems. Fuck his greedy-ass slumlord who keeps leaving strongly-worded letters on the door about collecting rent. If Dirk pops some straight dude’s gay cherry and makes him slobber cry, they’re going to be the ones owing _him_ money.

“First of all,” Dirk starts, sliding his glasses up to sit on the top of his head, “I can’t stress this enough. Don’t bring strangers to your house. Holy shit. It’s just as stupid for you to take me back to your place as it is for me to go. What if I decide to choke you out while I’m riding your dick? Think about that, man.”

John tilts his head and gives Dirk a wry smile. He’s thinking about it. “Do I have to pay extra for that?”

Three things become painstakingly obvious at that moment.

One. For the first time in ages, his dick is interested in the night’s potential. Mildly concerning.

Two. John Crocker has a death wish. That’s mildly concerning as well.

Three. He’s actually kind of funny. That’s _way_ more than mildly concerning.

Dirk does his best to keep a straight face, pinching the inside of his arm. He’s not going to laugh at a Crocker joke. He’s a goddamn professional. Flirting, however, is still on the table because, again, he’s a goddamn professional.

Flirting is easy and distracting.

Leaning back in the seat, Dirk makes himself comfortable, snuggling into the upholstery and spreading his legs to watch John with heavy-lidded eyes. He looks good and he knows it. “I’ll throw it in for free.”

John opens his mouth and Dirk holds up a finger, effectively shushing him. Shit’s about to get real. Time to break hearts and burst bubbles.

“That said,” Dirk continues, “here are some ground rules. You can rough me up but don’t leave any serious marks. Hickeys are fine below the collar, nothing on the neck, but no black eyes or anything of that nature. No hitting or slapping the face, period. No bodily fluids outside of spit and the usual. No kink shit without running it by me first. If you’re sittin’ there wondering what constitutes as kink shit, then—”

“Oh my god,” John wheezes. “This all seems kind of extreme. I’ll just have…you know, the regular. No extra kink shit.”

“Too bad, bro. I gotta run my spiel if we wanna get going.”

John groans, leaning back against the seat and rubbing beneath his glasses. He looks like a mess, and Dirk’s only now seeing it. Tired. Dirty—are those grass stains on his pants? He’d figured it was a safe bet to assume John was drunk but hell, maybe he’s worse off than he originally thought. The shirt he’s wearing is wrinkled, his dark hair is a bird’s nest of stray curls. On television, it’s always styled neatly in an effortlessly messy fashion. Disheveled, but purposely so. Here, John looks real; like any of the other guys who work a nine-to-five before heading to the district to get their rocks off.

Except Roxy was right, there’s an air of sadness about him. Ain’t that a bitch.

“Fine,” John mumbles, slapping his hands against his thighs, utterly defeated. “Go ahead.”

Dirk politely thanks him and finishes his pre-hookup disclosure in record time. Which is to say, they sit in the parking lot for another ten minutes. He’s been told it’s too wordy. Countless times. Mostly by Roxy.

_“Let it up, D-Stri. You aren’t gonna get any business like that. All those dudes looking for a piece of your sweet man meat are gonna see the stick shoved so far up your ass, they aren’t gonna wanna mess with pullin’ it out to get down with ya.”_

She’d had a point and he’d lessened the word count considerably, but now he’s mostly just fucking with John. It’s fun to watch his eyes go comically large while he spouts increasingly horrifying do’s-and-don’ts. John doesn’t try to stop the tirade of bullshit though. For the most part, he stares at Dirk like he’s grown a second head, turned fully in the seat to gawk.

“There’s no way you’ve been propositioned for half that shit,” he finally says. “You’re fucking with me. No one actually asked for that, uh, slime thing.”

“That one was real.” Dirk watches in amusement as the tan in John’s face goes pale. Then, Dirk watches in confused horror as he immediately performs some kind of bizarre face journey ranging from disgust to consideration. “Yeah. Weird night.”

Running a hand through his hair, John lets out a deep breath. “Well, okay. Is that it? Do I need to sign anything or…I don’t know, promise you my firstborn in exchange for my soul?”

“Nah. Just as long as we’re on the same page. I trust you.”

“Aww,” John says.

“No,” Dirk responds flatly. “It’s just that you have a lot more to lose than me. Do you think I care if my dirty laundry is aired out to the world? The car, the driver, the Rolex? Gonna go out on a limb and say you have more at stake than I do, and the public finding out that you have a weird slime kink would take more damage control than it’s worth.”

“Okay, first of all, _I don’t_ have a slime kink—”

“I dunno. Kinda suspicious that out of that whole ramble, that’s the thing you latched onto.”

“I just learned about it five seconds ago!” Something flashes over his face and he frowns. “Wait. Oh my god. Is this your business model? Act so fucking insufferable that your client will agree to any price just to shut you up?”

John’s breathing hard through his nostrils, chest heaving in that, frankly, _illegally_ tailored button-up. Honestly, who gave him the right to be so broad?

And, just this once, since neither Rox nor Jake are around to give him shit, he admits to himself that, not only is John Crocker funny, he’s also unfairly hot. He’s hit the jackpot here. Cash _and_ ass. Sure, there are certain rumors surrounding John and they don’t stray too far from his mind, but he puts them on the backburner for now. John’s all riled up and it’ll be a testament to Dirk’s pure, divine skill that he gets him off.

Dirk reaches across the middle seat, grabs John by the tie, and tugs.

“Caught me,” he whispers, a low growl in the space between them, “I’ll admit it’s pretty hard to talk shit when there’s something in my mouth.”

He’s close enough to hear John swallow. “Well, we should, uh, we should rectify that?”

Another hard tug and Dirk can see the bead of sweat at his temple roll. “Pay me. Give your driver a location, and then I’ll get to work.”

He lets go and John falls back against the door, breathing heavily for a _different_ reason. One glance at John’s lap explains everything.

Dirk quirks an eyebrow. Impressive. That wasn’t as hard as they say.

“Okay, just…do you want me to Venmo you or what?”

“That works.”

John’s hands are shaking when he pulls out his phone. Dirk calmly gives him the information, confirms that, _yes, John, that’s me and no, I won’t explain what timaeusTestified means._

He enters in the amount and pauses. “What do I put this is for?”

Blinking, Dirk sighs. How can he be a known name on Roxy’s street and still be this fucking clueless when it comes to paying for sex? Maybe he usually does cash—but Dirk’s an expensive guy and costs a little more than the ATM withdrawal limit.

“Just put art.”

Curiously, John lifts his head. “You’re an artist?”

“What?” For reasons unbeknownst to him, Dirk flusters. According to his Venmo history, he’s a pretty successful artist, but he _does_ sketch a little here and there in his spare time and maybe he has a talent for it. He doesn’t know. No one has ever fucking asked because it’s none of their business.

Yet, for some reason, Dirk answers with: “Occasionally.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he mumbles, watching John type in _Art_ and then scroll to find the paint palette emoji. It’s endearing in the worst possible way. “I’ll be sure to draw you something on the Hotel legal pad afterward.”

John snort-laughs. “That’d be cute.” What. “Okay, all sent.”

In his pocket, Dirk’s phone vibrates with a notification. He doesn’t check it because his chest is busy doing something weird and he can’t really say he’s the biggest fan. The control he had on the situation slips at an alarming rate. Everything is static in his ears as John throws him a shy, nervous smile after getting his driver’s attention. He gives the name of some hotel, and Dirk can’t even hear it.

Typical.

How pathetic _is_ he? That a man shows him the slightest bit of interest in something other than his body and he malfunctions like his old laptop in that highly unfortunate water bottle incident. He’s not touch-starved by any stretch of the imagination but it’s possible he’s...whatever the mental version of that is? Attention-starved. John’s comment had been so menial, a throwaway nicety, and Dirk’s brain short-circuited. So, yeah, to answer his question—he’s extremely pathetic.

It’s not like he gets the attention at home. When was the last time that Jake—

No.

 _No_.

Rule number one. Don’t think about Jake on the job.

Rule number two—

“Last thing,” Dirk says, and a very audible groan comes from John’s side of the car. It’s a whole production. “All that shit I spouted at you earlier still stands, but if you only follow _one_ guideline it’s this—"

“Don’t fall in love?” John asks in a mocking, sing-song voice. He snort-laughs again. Why is that suddenly adorable, what the fuck kind of voodoo witchcraft stunt did he pull while Dirk wasn’t looking? “Relax.”

“No,” Dirk deadpans, “I don’t particularly want you to do that either though. So sure, let’s add that to the list. But that’s not it.”

“Alright, then. What?”

Dirk swallows. This should be the easy part. He saves it for last because sometimes clients can be sticklers about it. It’s important though. Mandatory. Absolutely non-fucking-negotiable. He’s said it hundreds of times to hundreds of men.

So, why the hell is his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth? He blames it on John’s big blue eyes, blinking at him, the earnest look on his face. There’s still a waft of alcohol but he seems mostly coherent and attentive while he stares at Dirk expectantly.

“No kissing.”

John makes a disappointed noise. “Not even on the cheek?”

“No.” A beat. “Why would you want to kiss me on the cheek? Are you my grandpa?”

“No! I’m just making sure. I don’t want to detonate a dealbreaker or anything! Okay, so what about like, uh…” He trails off, lifting a hand to mime at his chest before pointing down. “You said no bruises or marks above the collar, does that extend into kissing?”

It absolutely does. Having a stranger on him and in him is one thing. Feeling their lips on his skin is another. He’s been down that road before, back in his early days of trickin’. It leaves him feeling gross and dirty, and just having that line in the sand makes things a little easier. This job, his position, it’s about control, and he has to have the upper hand, or else he loses.

No kissing. Anywhere.

“Below the neck is fine,” Dirk says. Fuck. It’s just because John has proclaimed himself to be straight—that he’s going to bow out of this before he gets the chance. Dirk tells himself that John doesn’t really want to kiss him and that he probably won’t. He’s just covering bases. That’s it. That’s all.

John nods at him with sincerity.

This poor fuckin’ chump.

Dirk scoots until he’s pressed right up against him. He’s warm, solid, smells like something woodsy underneath the musk of booze and smoke and damp grass. Okay, he’ll admit he’s curious about the grass thing. Did he take a tumble on his way out to grab a hooker? Whatever. Some mysteries are better left unsolved. He places a hand on John’s knee and squeezes, trailing his fingers up, up, up, and up…

John stops him.

“Wait. I need to tell you something.”

Dirk hums, raising an eyebrow. “Lay it on me.”

“It’s about who I am.”

Right. They never actually got that far, did they? Normally, that’s not a matter Dirk would be so careless to forget. A name exchange is right up there with price negotiation, as far as he’s concerned. It’s just that it slipped his mind on account of already knowing exactly who John he is.

Dirk wonders if maybe he should stop him before he says anything, or if maybe he should just admit to recognizing him fairly early on in their meeting. The latter option gets snuffed out pretty quickly. The only reason he’s even in John’s car right now is because he thinks that he _didn’t_ recognize him.

Dirk gets that. It’s probably tiring to have people clamoring after some postcard version of yourself that they’ve puzzled and glued together in their minds, setting a splinter of you that doesn’t exist on a pedestal that you can’t even reach.

They say it’s lonely at the top, and that’s why Dirk stays on the bottom.

There’s a joke there, he’s sure, but he’s too distracted by John to workshop it.

Dirk sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

“What?”

“John Crocker. C’mon, man. Do you think I live in the middle of the ocean?”

“Oh.” John’s shoulders deflate a little and the smile he gives doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course.”

He looks like a kicked puppy and it’s doing something awful to that empty space in Dirk’s chest.

Silence crackles like the static of an old television. Outside of the car, lights bleed past them, illuminating John’s profile in the neon city. He’s older, older than Dirk by more than a few years, but there’s still a boyish sort of charm about his face. Maybe it’s how the tip of his nose has a slight upturn, or how his teeth, slightly too large for his mouth, seem to permanently worry into his lip. Even then, there's still a weariness there, evident in the heavy downward drag of his shoulders and bags beneath his eyes. Exhaustion that goes deeper than missed sleep.

Softly and without looking up, John asks, "Why'd you agree then?"

“I didn’t think you’d agree to one grad. Sure didn’t think you’d agree to two. Absolutely fuckin’ flabbergasted that you upped it to three on your own.”

The laugh that comes is a sad one. Ah, hell. Apparently, these are honesty hours. Usually, the car rides back to the hotel are spent fluffing up his client. A sloppy blowjob to get them riled up and ready to go so that the main event might be over quicker, and he gets _less_ bang for his buck. Nope. John Crocker wants a certified feelings jam.

Oh,” John finally says. “Right. Obviously.”

The hand on John’s lap feels a little bit inappropriate now. Dirk leaves it anyway. He’s on the clock and if John needs to hear something raw and honest, fine.

Here it goes.

“You’re good to Roxy,” Dirk admits. “We don’t discuss a lot—” Lie. “—but I know enough to know that you treat her right where you’re together. That’s it. I’m not some crazed super fan if that’s what you’re thinking. I actually don’t think your funny. I’d rather pull out my teeth than watch one of your specials. If I have to hear my—” Dirk stops himself from saying _boyfriend_. Clients don’t tend to like that. Ruins the illusion. “—friend quote one more of your bits, I swear to god.”

This time, when John laughs, it at least sounds genuine.

“But, for what it’s worth, I think you’re probably a decent dude. And, honestly, I felt like a tool for being an ass to you.”

 _And the rent is due_ , Dirk doesn’t say. Because that feels counter-productive.

“You don’t think I’m funny?”

Christ. Of course, _that’s_ what he chooses to comment on.

And how to even answer? Dirk finds his taste in humor to be a little more advanced than sad, self-deprecating jokes made at the comedian’s own expense. A guy admits he hates himself and the room laughs? Not funny…or maybe it hits just a little too close to home. Comedy should have layers. Comedy should make you think—and not think about how much you can’t stand looking in the mirror. Irony, now that’s where it’s at. SBaHJ? _That’s_ comedy.

Anyway, that’s a condensed version of the long answer. Dirk settles for the spark-notes.

“No.”

John laughs again, throwing his head back to expose his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, and Dirk tries to parse whether or not it’s an angry, maniacal laugh. Probably not. He turns to Dirk, eyes shining. “Good. No, wait. I mean it. I’m glad. Thank fucking god.”

“Uh.”

“You don’t know how refreshing it is,” he continues, “I’m surrounded by people every day who just—they worship the ground I walk on. I mean, they pretend to. I know that half of them hate me and it’s not like I can blame them. But jeez, I don’t know. You hear how great you are all the time, even when you don’t feel it, and all those words start to lose their meaning, I guess. Compliments become nothing.”

"Uh."

"Sounds stupid, doesn't it? But you saying that you hate my comedy is probably the most genuine thing anyone has said to me in a really long time. So, thanks. "

The car pulls to a stop beneath the artificial light of a classy looking awning. Thank god for small fuckin’ mercies because Dirk isn’t sure how to respond to _any_ of that. John gives him an apologetic smile, tells him that he’ll be right back, and leaves Dirk to process the wreckage of his emotional truth bomb.

At least it’s much easier to watch the way John's ass bounces during his quick jaunt to the lobby.

Okay, Dirk can admit that it’s wretched, but he doesn’t make a habit of viewing clients as people with lives and thoughts and feelings. Why the hell should he? It’s not like he’s ever been offered the same respect. He’s a body and they’re a wallet. Cased closed. Shit gets fickle quickly when you start thinking of them as anything else.

He makes a mental note to add _emotional vulnerability_ to the hard pass section of his verbal waiver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the feedback so far! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is emotionally heavy. it won't always be like this.

The moment they stumble into the room—and it’s a _nice_ one, holy shit—John heads straight for the wine chiller. It’s not Dirk’s first rodeo in a nice hotel, but he’s still a little caught off guard by the fact that John’s rented them the fucking _Honeymoon_ suite. If he rounds that corner and sees a heart-shaped bed, he’s going to scream.

John holds out a bottle with one hand and two wine glasses with the other and shakes them while honest-to-god _wiggling_ his eyebrows. It’s an offer that receives no answer because he’s too busy watching in stunned silence as John sets down the glasses and grabs the corkscrew. Dirk doesn’t drink, and he should definitely be telling John that, but now he’s rolling up his sleeves and _damn_ , those are some impressive forearms.

Right as he starts to pour, Dirk’s brain kicks back online. “None for me.”

John stops, looking up with the bottle half-tilted. Only a splash makes it in the glass. “No?”

“No.”

“No worries then,” he says cheerfully. Well, in a way that might be construed as cheerful if it weren’t Dirk that he was saying it too. John’s smile is fake, fake, fake. “Not on the job then, I’m guessing. You _are_ a professional, Mr. Strider.”

“Not ever.”

“Oh,” John says with a surprised little sound, clearly making a valiant effort not to say something offensive as he looks Dirk up and down, head to toe. Whatever conclusion he comes to stays in his head and he doesn’t finish pouring the glass, opting to take a swig straight from the bottle.

Dirk watches with a mixture of concern and awe. Damn, he’s really putting it away. Maybe he should stop him? Nah, fuck it. He’s been paid. If John passes out, this will be the easiest three grand he’s ever made. It’s probably going to be anyway—because it’s either that or Dirk actually gets on his knees for John fucking Crocker. The whole night is a win-win, any way you slice it.

Hey, that’s right, they’ve got an entire night.

John pulls off the bottle with a satisfied sigh—okay, has he been _chugging_ this entire time? “More for me then!”

“Yeah,” Dirk says slowly and skeptically, dragging out each vowel into a question. “I’m going to shower up.”

“Okay.” John fumbles with the bottle, eyeing him nervously. “Should I join you?”

At once, Dirk recognizes the man before him for exactly what he is. Someone that has a mad amount of game with the ladies, way too used to people fawning and falling over him, and who is completely out of his element with a dude. He's trying though, it’s cute. But, damn, it’s also awkward.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“This isn’t a sexy shower,” Dirk explains with a handwave. “This is an _‘I’ve-been-sweating-my-ass-off-all-night-in-skin-tight-leather pants’_ shower. I’m just doing you a favor, bro. Pro bono.”

John grins.

“If you make a fucking boner joke, I’ll turn around walk out of this hotel room. Don’t test me.”

“Okay, okay, sheesh,” he says, biting his lip and holding up his hands in defeat. It’s there, on the tip of his tongue, and Dirk can physically see it trying to worm its way out.

He gives him a solid three seconds.

Three.

Two.

“I wouldn’t want to miss out on your _pro bo_ —” John wheeze-laughs at his own joke before he can complete it and it takes everything in Dirk’s psyche not to make good on his promise. Technically, he didn’t finish, so…

He’ll stay. He's being tested, but he'll stay.

“I’m showering now,” he says over the tipsy laughter. “Try not to drink yourself fucking stupid before I can get back.”

Fat chance.

Dirk’s first thought upon seeing the bathroom is: _Alright, nice. Can I live here?_ Not in the hotel, not in the suite, but this bathroom and this bathroom only. Goddamn. It’s spacious with a glass shower and a jacuzzi tub, a floor-to-ceiling mirror, all white and modern with gunmetal accents, and just standing in it makes Dirk feel dirty. Belatedly, he checks the marble tile to make sure he hasn’t tracked in any mud with his grimy shit-kickers. Nah, he hasn’t.

Stripping out of his clothes becomes a sensual affair. He does so slowly in front of the mirror, taking his time for no one but himself. It’s not often he gets to lavish in the lap of luxury, and damn if he isn’t gonna _lavish._ For a brief moment, he can pretend like this is his bathroom and there’s no one waiting for him on the other side of the door. Just him and a walk-in shower with enough hot water to last him an hour, maybe more.

After it’s all said and done, Dirk piles his clothes neatly on the counter and stands in front of the mirror, completely undressed. For the first time in a while, he assesses his whole…situation. Physically speaking.

The fluorescent light isn’t doing much for the bags under his eyes, the smudged black makeup doesn’t cover them completely. He looks washed-out and sickly, and even his freckles have faded and begun to go sallow. Concerning. When he twists his torso, he can see the ridges of his ribcage poking through. Used to, he could keep toned enough to keep the usual malnutrition hidden. Double concerning. Poking at a bruise on his hip, Dirk sighs. Jesus, he’s really let himself go. Thankfully, it’s not going to matter much. He could have the body of a god, strut out looking like fucking Adonis, and it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. Crocker is _straight_ ; term used loosely.

Forty-five minutes. That’s how long the hot water lasts. Dirk lathers himself up as quickly and thoroughly as he can and spends the remainder of his time underneath the scalding spray, letting it beat down on every sore and aching muscle.

It’s a bad idea, he knows. For one, the longer he dawdles, the more likely it is that he’ll return to John knocked out cold—and, as bad as he hates to admit it, he does kinda want this to pan out. Two, the longer he dawdles, the more he realizes how absolutely exhausted he is and how good a nice, long nap in a real bed would feel.

That’s _not_ an option though.

Personal rule number two: _No slumber parties._ Sleep with the clients, but don’t _actually_ sleep with them.

He steps out of the shower and dries off with the fluffiest towel in existence and it may be as good as the shower itself. Fuck, rich people really know how to live. This is great. But, when Dirk looks in the mirror, the high wears off almost immediately.

Shit.

Okay, maybe he didn’t think this all the way through. His hair is a conundrum in itself; he’s got none of his products, flat iron, or a brush. Well. He ruffles it dry the best he can and runs his fingers through it, attempting to give himself somewhat of a style. For the second time that night, he has to remind himself that John doesn’t care. He could walk out of this bathroom with a mullet and it wouldn’t matter as long as he sucked John’s dick afterward.

That should comfort him, but it doesn’t. It does, however, remind him to dig the condom and travel-sized bottle of lube out his jacket pocket.

Steam shrouds him as he opens the door and a blast of cranked-up AC hits him full fucking force. Yikes. That’s cold. He’s only got a towel wrapped around his waist, the sudden chill making his skin prickle with goosebumps, and when he rounds the corner from the communal area to the sleeping quarters—yeah, that explains it. One bottle of wine is empty, another popped open, and John’s got his head pressed to the air conditioning unit.

Carefully, he sets down their night’s necessities on the bed and raises an eyebrow. “Hot?”

“Yeah,” John says, words muffled right into the metal. There’s a shine of sweat at his temple, and he turns his head to the side slowly, eyes going wide. “Oh. You’re hot.”

Dirk huffs out a laugh and tightens his grip on the towel. “No, I’m freezing.”

“No, no, no, no,” John slurs, pulling himself to his feet with a wobble. His shirt is half-unbuttoned, tie askew, hair a fucking mess; looks like he got halfway to undressing before having a meltdown. Cooldown? Doesn’t matter. He takes a step toward Dirk and spreads his warm palms against his chest and sighs. “You’re _so_ hot.”

“And you’re so drunk,” Dirk tells him, grabbing him by the wrists and attempting to remove his wandering hands. John is persistent, and his grabby fingers soon find the ink sprawling over Dirk’s shoulder, the dark feathers that sweep down over his skin. He traces the tattoo like it’s brail. “Doesn’t feel any different. Don’t know what you’re tryin’ to accomplish there.”

John looks up at him, practically giddy. “I like it.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles. It’s one of his better pieces, the rest mostly stick-and-pokes done by some kitchen wizard. This one is professional; a large black crow over this shoulder with wings spanning down his arm and across his back, head hooking over to rest on his chest. A sword rammed straight through the torso.

“What’s it mean?”

Dirk flusters, but only for a moment. He's caught off guard, that's all. Most people don’t really care. They think it’s hot, they tell him as much, and they move on. That’s that. But John’s still rubbing his fingers against the beak, trailing them up to follow the blade, looking at him expectantly.

“Means I don’t like birds. Are you done?”

He gets an eye roll for an answer, and Dirk sees the exact moment that roll lands him on something shiny and new to grab his attention.

A curved bar through each nipple that’s more for aesthetic than anything these days. Like the bird, his piercings are professional; there’s no way in hell he’d trust some chump with a DIY piercing kit from Amazon. His nipples fall off due to gangrene would be bad for business.

A thumb swipes over one and Dirk suppresses a sharp hiss.

“Sorry,” John murmurs. “Did that hurt?”

“No.”

He does it again and, this time, Dirk openly gasps. Fuck it. That’s what he’s here for, and it feels good, so why not? It’s been a while since someone’s touched him like they’re genuinely curious and interested, and not to simply turn him over for the main event or touch him like he’s a chore that needs to be dealt with. He can have this.

John’s watching him intently and Dirk tries not to squirm. Kinda hard when two strong hands are toying with the jewelry through his nipples though. Fuck.

“I like these too,” John says and it’s all the warning he gives before ducking his head down to replace his fingers with his mouth.

“Shit,” Dirk grits out. Holy fuck, this is embarrassing. He’s going to pass out. “Bed.”

John detaches himself long enough to push him toward the bed, and Dirk collapses on a pillow-soft comforter, bringing John down with him. The attention directs right back to his chest, teeth and tongue taking turns exploring very sensitive areas. It feels good. Overwhelming. Oh, fuck. He could get lost in this.

That’s a problem.

He could get used to this.

That’s a bigger problem.

A problem for later though because, _holy shit_ , John knows what to do with his mouth. He kisses and sucks his way up to Dirk’s collar bone, moving across his tattoo and back down. Doesn’t leave an inch of skin untouched and Dirk knows it’s downright disgraceful what a quivering mess that leaves him. He’s got one hand fisted in John’s hair guiding him where he wants him and that just so happens to be everywhere. And John lets him, happily, even when Dirk pushes his head lower and lower and he feels teeth at the sharp jut of his hipbone.

In the back of his mind, a warning siren blares.

_Abort! Abort! Abort!_

“Uhm, not to kill the mood,” John says, voice unsteady.

Dirk lifts his head, struggling to look down. There's no way in hell this angle is flattering, but he's a little too dizzy to care. John’s face hovers dangerously close the tent in his towel, the only thing keeping him modest and by no more than a miracle and a prayer. It’s not often he gets this turned on by a client, mostly just enough for what’s needed and necessary. Even then, well, he’s the master of faking it ‘til he makes for a reason.

And there’s nothing fake about the situation between his legs.

“What?”

“I don’t really…know what to do here,” he laughs.

“Okay, Crocker, hot tip number one, try not to laugh when you’re eye-level with another guy’s cock.”

“Sorry!” The apology sounds somewhat sincere, at least. “Do I just…”

John tugs on the towel and that’s all she wrote. Dirk’s out and exposed, and harder than a rock, and John’s looking at him like he’s never seen a dick this close before. It’d be hilarious if the sight didn’t awaken and prompt the only logical part left of Dirk’s brain back into action.

What the fuck is he doing?

Better question—what the fuck is _John_ doing? The answer to that is, reaching out with a shaky hand, brows furrowed, and a determined set to his jaw. Oh.

“Hey.” Dirk catches his wrist gently. “No, don’t worry about that.”

John’s head snaps up, expression bewildered and hurt like Dirk’s just kicked his puppy and told him ghosts were real. In other words, he looks pitiful. “I thought…”

Dirk highly doubts he’s had a rational thought in the past twenty-four hours.

“That’s not why you paid me.” He tugs, pulling John up onto the bed, which happens to be on top of him first, before he can wiggle out from beneath him and reverse their positions. Looming over him, Dirk drops his hands to the front of John’s slacks and grins. “ _This_ is why you paid me.”

Time to earn his keep and show him how it’s done. Then, if John wants to try it out for himself, he supposes that he can allow that. There’s no strict rule set against reciprocation. Honestly, it hasn’t come up enough for him to evaluate how he feels about it. Not in a while, at least. Sometimes a guy will try a reach-around during, but it’s rare they find him hard enough for anything substantial.

_Congratulations, John Crocker, you just added a clause to the service Terms and Conditions._

Dirk palms the front of John’s pants and frowns. He’s soft. Not even halfway to a semi.

Alright. Realistically, he knew this was a probability for several reasons. One, John says he’s not gay. At this point, that’s up for debate, but sure, they can roll with that. Two, John’s drunk. That probably a larger benefiting factor here. Three, thanks to hot gossip on the street, he already knew this was a reoccurring technical issue.

And, yet, none of that stops Dirk’s anxiety from spiking. He jerks his hand away.

“What?” John props himself up on his elbows, reaches down to grope at his lap and groans. It’s not the kind of groan that’s usually accompanied by someone manhandling their dick. “Well, fuck.”

“Look, if you’re not into it—”

“No, I am!”

“Uh.” Dirk clears his throat. “I don’t want to be rude, but…”

“It’s fine,” John grumbles. His hand working frantically to pop his button and tug down his zipper. Yeah, okay, there’s his dick. He gives himself a couple of half-hearted, lazy strokes. “This happens. It’s fine. Just—”

“I’ll be honest with you. I don’t know what to do here.”

John laughs. It’s a breathless sound with no humor that hits Dirk like a direct punch to the solar plexus. He’s got his eyes screwed shut and the look on his face resembles pain more than pleasure. Not a physical pain either, something deeper that extends to his core. Dirk recognizes that pain; knows it intimately.

“Hey,” he whispers, pulling John’s hand away before he chafes himself raw. “I got it. I know what you need.”

A fuck ton of therapy and rehab probably, but Dirk doesn’t say that. There’s something else. John Crocker doesn’t need to get off, he just…he needs to be touched. The grand finale here is feeling wanted, not blowing his load. Dirk knows what John needs because he needs it too. Fuck.

Okay.

“Just relax,” Dirk tells him, sliding down. He settles between John's legs, hoisting thick thighs to rest on his shoulders, and gets comfortable. “Enjoy yourself.”

For a guy who shells out money like confetti, Dirk gets the feeling he’s ever truly done that. 

“Yeah, I— _ahhh_ , oh fuck.”

Dirk swallows him down easily and gently. It’s not the first time he’s fluffed someone up before, but those situations are usually reserved for when he’s trying to cut corners and speed things up. This is different, and he takes his time to lick and suck, practically administering a full-on Sunday morning worship service for John’s flaccid cock. Preaching with his mouth, though there’s nothing holy about the sounds they’re both making or the way John fists his hand his hair and twists. Dirk takes a dose of his own medicine and just enjoys himself—revels in the breathy moans; the satisfaction of making someone feel good; and, soon, the way John tenses and starts to firm in his mouth.

He pulls off with a gasp and ignores John’s disappointed whine. He’s hard, but not nearly as hard as Dirk is. It’s enough but he needs to be quick. Blindly, he pats around the bed for the condom and lube.

“Dirk?”

Dirk grunts in response, way too focused on ripping the condom’s foil packet with his teeth.

“Dirk.”

He briefly looks up from his current task of rolling latex over a semi-hard dick. “Yeah?”

“You don’t have to,” John says. There’s still a slight slur to his speech and his eyes are glassed over but his voice sounds grave. Serious. “I’m not going to ask for the money back if I can’t—” Gesturing to his whole lap situation, he snorts out a trademark self-deprecating laugh.

The crushing sense of insecurity comes back, creeping up his chest like a dark shadow and wrapping fingers around his neck with the intent to strangle.

“I’m not here to make you do anything,” Dirk bites out. “If you want me to leave, I can. But—just fucking say so, alright? I don’t need you to beat around the bush to spare my feelings.”

“What? No.” John’s eyes widen and his hand slips from Dirk’s hair to frantically grab at his shoulder. “No, no, no. That’s not it.”

Logically, Dirk knows that he’s not the real problem here; that John has his own demons battling for control. But the dark voice in the back of his mind tells logic to take a long hike, and it does, and then turns to whisper every one of his imperfections directly in his ear.

_Demanding._

_Controlling._

_Selfish._

_Cracked._

_Splintered._

It was only a matter of time. His boyfriend already can’t stand to touch him and now neither can his clients—

“Please stay.”

Dirk’s head snaps up to find John staring down at him. There’s something warm pressed against his cheek and through the slowly-fading fog, he registers it as John’s hand. Fuck. He did it again, didn’t he? Mentally left the premises. Checked out.

“What?”

“Don’t leave?” John asks. “Stay.”

Dirk swallows. He can’t stay. It’s a rule. It’s an _important_ rule. This has already flown wildly off the rails—just completely billowed up into a fiery fucking explosion. And that’s saying something considering, thus far, his entire life has been one big crash-and-burn.

He can’t stay.

The hand on his cheek tightens its grip, a thumb coming to caress beneath his eye. Dirk can feel the tremor against him, the way John shakes. There’s a raw mix of emotion concentrated present on his face. Guilt. Sadness. Shame. It makes Dirk feel flayed open. Maybe he’s the one shaking.

He covers John’s hand with his own and leans into the touch.

He can’t stay.

“Please,” John whispers, broken and hoarse, “I just don’t want to be alone.”

It’s an honest confession and Dirk’s always considered himself an eye-for-an-eye sort of guy. He looks away, choosing to study the sliver of city lights bleeding through the crack in the curtains while he quietly admits— “Neither do I.”

Wordlessly, Dirk lets himself be pulled back up the length of the bed. John gets rid of the useless condom, and then his pants. Dirk helps him with his shirt, not that he needs it, but it’s a good excuse to run his hands shamelessly over the tanned, freckled skin that he unearths. There’s a moment where Dirk allows himself to indulge in the exploration but, when his fingers slide up the column of John’s neck, snaking around to cradle the back of his head—reality comes crashing in like a wrecking ball, breaking them apart.

He can’t stay.

Dirk settles in beneath the covers with John warm at his back, strong arms wrapped around his middle, and a nose buried in the crook of his neck. He has to close his eyes to stop the familiar sting from welling there. Fuck.

He _won’t_ stay.

It’s hard not to fall asleep when he’s curled up in a bed that’s not a futon, being cradled like a fucking baby, while he’s so mentally and physically exhausted. Hard, but not impossible. Dirk waits until John’s breathing has evened out and he’s snoring before he carefully pries himself loose. There’s a disgruntled furrow of his brow, a dissatisfied noise, and then John turns over, pulling the covers with him.

Out cold.

Dirk still gets dressed in the bathroom as quietly as he can. Somehow, even after his luxury shower, he looks worse for wear. His hair has dried in a disheveled display of his natural waves, his eyes red and puffy from lack of sleep and—okay, fine, just a little bit of crying. Whatever.

He stands there until he can’t take seeing his reflection anymore. It’s disconcerting how out-of-place he looks and feels here. Goddamnit. He hadn’t expected John Crocker, of all people, to grab at his unraveled threads and tug so mercilessly. Time to go. Time to forget this whole nightmare of a fucking night happened.

Not yet though. One more thing.

Dirk creeps over to the bedside table. For a moment, he gets lost in watching John saw logs, his mouth hanging open, buckteeth on display. The temptation to snap a picture is hard to resist, but he does it. That’d break about fifty personal rules and probably a few laws. Anyway, he owes John something.

Every hotel, no matter how cheap or fancy, has a legal pad and pen. Jackpot.

He doodles an exaggerated representation of John’s sleeping face, pulls back to admire his handiwork and frowns. No, not enough. He _did_ get paid three grand, after all. Quickly, he adds a caricature of himself in the background, triangle shades and all, giving a thumbs up. Dirk smiles down at it. Nice.

And, before he leaves for good, he adds with barely legible chicken scratch:

_Take care of yourself, Crocker.  
-DS_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another angsty chapter that gives us a glimpse into dirk's life at home. sorry about that, it'll pick up in tone soon. the endnote has some info on jake's characterization in this fic.

“Rise and shine!”

Dirk groans and rolls over, flopping his arm to limply drop down on the empty space beside him. He’s not sure what he was expecting—Jake to be there? Hah. It’s too early for jokes. Anyway, not like it matters. The bed is about to be at full occupancy.

In three, two...

Roxy dives in, immediately wrapping her arms and legs around him like an octopus, squeezing the life outta him like a boa constrictor. It’s a regular fuckin’ futon zoo. She presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek and cackles directly in his ear, loud and boisterous. Her breath smells like mint toothpaste and her hair is still damp, which means it hasn’t been too long since she’s got up and showered which, in conclusion, means that it’s way too early for him to be awake.

“Where were _you_ last night?” She lets out an accusatory hum and pinches his side. “I swung by the corner on the way home and you weren’t there. Did you actually manage to pick someone up? Should I be worried? You comin’ to take all my business?”

Guilt bubbles in his chest and he swallows it down. Sure, Crocker is _her_ regular—but last night was a one time deal. It’s done. Over. He’s not snatching the rug from her feet, and even if he _was_ —which he isn’t—it’s not like all their earnings don’t funnel right back into the same household.

But…he should tell her. That’s just good manners.

Dirk rolls over in her arms and cracks one eye open, letting his sight adjust and focus. Damn. He’ll never understand how Roxy wakes up so…chipper. No big deal, he meets her jubilance with his typical morning attitude. “What’s it to ya?”

She slaps at his shoulder, doing her best to look him up and down in the cramped space. Her gaze stops at his mop of air-dried, slept-on curls. Bright eyes widening, she slaps him again, this time gasping like she caught him red-handed.

Maybe she has.

“Who? You better tell me!”

Do it. Rip the Band-Aid off, Strider.

“Crocker.”

_“John?”_

“The one and only.”

Roxy blinks, hums, tilts her head in consideration, comes to some conclusion, and nods. It’s a whole production and Dirk waits for the verdict with bated breath.

“Makes sense,” she says, “I had a suspicion that’s why…you know.” Holding up her index finger, she frowns and lets it drop sadly. “ _Whomp, whomp.”_

Dirk folds his hand over her first and lowers it. He doesn’t need a charade performance; it’s all still burned pretty clean into his memory. “Yeah, well. Turns out my dick isn’t the magical cure-all.”

“Oh my god,” Roxy squeals, positively fucking delighted. “Did _you_ fuck him?”

He shushes her, eyes darting around the living room, also known as his and Jake’s bedroom. It’s not like his boyfriend isn’t well aware of his night job; they just don’t talk about it. In the same way that Dirk doesn’t ask about the details of his webcam ventures. Jake has a nice ass and people want to see it and, better yet, they want to _pay_ to see it. He doesn’t fair well in Dirk’s line of work, doesn’t like to be touched by strangers, but touching himself behind a camera keeps the lights on. Not a bad gig, in all honesty.

Roxy gives him a little shake. “Did you?”

“No! I tried to give him a blowjob—”

“Oh my _god._ ”

“—but, uh, didn’t get that far. It went south. I’m talking geese-evading-winter south. I don’t think it had anything to do with my technique either. Scratch that. I know it didn’t. He was messed up when I got in the car _and_ drank almost two bottles of wine while I was in the shower. The guy is a living train wreck, Rox.”

Dirk isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but it’s not Roxy leaning into his personal space and _sniffing_ to say, “Oh, so _that’s_ why you smell like soured grape juice!”

He frowns and attempts to discretely get a whiff of himself. If anything, he smells like the hotel body wash, which smells like fresh clean linen; thank you _very_ much, Lalonde. There’s even a strong hint of John’s cologne or, who knows, maybe that scent is just stuck in his nostrils by now. He did spend the better part of the night pressed against John, wrapped in his arms.

Oh, god. She can’t find that out. No one can find that out.

“Is that all you got from that?” Dirk asks.

The humor etched on her face softens into sympathy. “Must have been a bad night for him, huh? Poor guy.”

“Yeah. He needs help,” he tells her. Bold claim coming from him, but hey, he calls it like he sees it. John needs something more substantial than paying a sex worker to fucking cuddle him to sleep.

Roxy smiles at him sadly. They’re both on their sides to face each other and it’s nothing for her to reach out and pat his cheek. It sorta has the same vibe as when a sweet southern lady says, “ _Bless your heart._ ” So, just a little bit backhanded and borderline condescending.

“Oh, Dirk,” she says.

“What?”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“No, you don’t,” Dirk lies.

“Look, I’ve known Crocker for a while,” Roxy pauses to wiggle her eyebrows, “I’ve seen his ups and downs, highs and lows. He’s a good guy but, well. There’s no helping someone who doesn’t wanna help themselves, you know?”

Dirk grimaces. “Yeah.”

She pushes a long, black-varnished nail into the center of his chest. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You act like I’m going to see him again. What? Why are you looking at me like that? It was a one-and-done, Rox. I just so happened to be there last night, and he was desperate,” he explains.

The memory of John looking down, tender and afraid, with hand on his cheek while he asks him to stay, appears in the back of Dirk’s mind, and nope. Not happening. He winds up a Louisville slugger and knocks that invasive thought right out of the ballpark.

“Not to mention,” Dirk continues, “I was desperate too.”

She dramatically places a hand over her mouth.

“For the money,” he clarifies. “Keep it up and it’s all mine.”

“How much did Crocker dish out for this prime piece of man meat?” Roxy brings a hand down on Dirk’s waist with a loud smack. He feels like maybe he should apologize to her for it. His sharp hipbone probably sliced her hand open. She doesn't cop him for it.

 _Pencil in gym time_ , Dirk adds to his mental schedule.

“Guess.”

“Three hundred.”

“Nope.” He pops the _P_ for good measure.

“Warm or cold?”

“Cold.”

“Five hundred?”

“So cold,” Dirk says pitifully. “You’re gettin' mad hypothermia right now. I think your lips are turning blue. Not a great color on you.”

“Oh, whatever. You know I can rock any color,” she says with a playful pout. It’s true though. Right now, her hair is bright pink and, in the future, when he’s not childishly teasing her, he’ll let her know how much it suits her. “But alright, should I go lower? Is that where I’m messing up?”

“Rude,” Dirk says flatly. He gets a wink in return. “Three thousand.”

“Shut up.”

“No.”

Roxy shoves at him again but her attempt to look scandalized doesn’t last long, the faux horror quickly morphing into glee. “You swindled that poor man out of three grand? And you didn’t even get to fuck him? Dirk. I don’t know if I’m impressed or disappointed.”

Honestly, neither does he.

“I didn’t swindle him,” Dirk rectifies. “That was his offer. I wasn’t about to turn it down.”

He should have though. He should have never got in the car with John Crocker. Something in him got cracked open and there’s not enough duct tape in the world to patch him back up. Through the years, Dirk’s met a lot of sad, lonely people, and yet, he’s never met anyone like John. It was like looking in a busted mirror. Maybe that's why...

Maybe that’s why he made the mistake of breaking _Personal Rule #03._

He allowed himself to feel.

“You’re treating us to lunch then,” Roxy chirps, rolling off the bed and brushing off her wrinkled clothes. “I want the good stuff too. Don’t cheap out on me.”

“Fine.”

Damn his bleeding heart.

* * *

The good stuff is two deep-dish pizzas and garlic breadsticks from a Mom ‘n Pop place around the corner. It’s usually their go-to splurge place. Support your community and all that. Dirk likes it because it’s good, not because it’s local, and apparently the real-deal Chicago shit. He doesn’t know enough about Chicago to dispute it. Houston to Los Angeles. That’s the extent of his travel.

But with three grand, even after bills, maybe they can take a weekend trip somewhere.

“If you could go anywhere, where would it be?”

Dirk watches his boyfriend try to eat deep-dish like any regular hand-tossed. At some point, it’s become performance art. He’s told him time and time again; this shit is basically lasagna. You gotta use a fork.

Jake “Utensils are for Cowards” English pauses mid-bite to stare bewildered. Slowly, he lowers his slice, or what’s left, and thinks on it.

Before he can get anything out, Roxy prods her fork in his direction to say with a mouth full, “You can’t say the park from Avatar either.”

“You can,” Dirk says, cutting a sharp glare in her direction. He turns back to Jake and sighs. “But don’t. Try somewhere a little closer.”

“Oh, alright then.” He looks to Roxy. He looks to Dirk. He looks back to Roxy, back to Dirk. “I can’t very well think with you two staring a hole through me.”

Dirk drops his gaze back down to his plate, pushing around the supreme meat filling which, to the surprise of no one, is mostly sausage. He hears Jake hum thoughtfully, probably carefully weighing the pros and cons of each option. He wants to travel and not just to humdrum, touristy sites. He wants to see the world and get dangerous with it. A thrill-seeker and adrenaline junky. No wonder he’s been so tense lately. They’ve been tethered to this city for years. A weekend away might do them some good. Might be the flint and steel they need to rekindle their lost flame.

“The beach.”

Okay. That’s _not_ what he was expecting. Some obscure cave to go spelunking, sure, but— “The beach?”

Jake shrugs. “Sure.”

“Please,” Roxy whines. “Please, yes, let’s go to the beach.”

The beach is like an hour away, tops. Maybe two or three depending on the traffic. He’d been thinking something with a little more oomph, but Roxy has stars in her eyes and Jake’s already resumed the daunting task of devouring his pizza.

Dirk twirls some cheese on his fork with no intention of eating it.

“Beach it is,” he says. “This weekend?”

“Yes!” Roxy triumphantly hisses at the same time that Jake says, “I can’t.”

Dirk perks up and tries not to look disappointed. “You can’t?”

“Afraid I’m busy with work,” he explains rather vaguely. Sometimes he books private shows or hosts special events, that could be it—again, they politely don’t discuss the specifics. But there _is_ a frown on his face, and he _does_ look genuinely apologetic. That’s something. “You two go along without me.”

Roxy’s shoulders slump, probably because she knows that isn’t gonna happen. “Aww, c’mon!”

At least she looks and sounds as bummed as Dirk feels. Good. He can play up the stoicism and act like none of this makes his chest ache. Stabbing a pepperoni like it personally offended him, he asks, “What about next weekend?”

“Right. I can probably do that,” Jake says brightly, totally unaware of the dark cloud he’s summoned over Dirk’s mood. “What’s with all this though? Pizza? A weekend retreat to the beach?” He narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Did you trip and land on a full wallet?”

“Oh, he tripped and landed on something alright—” Dirk turns his fork into a makeshift catapult and launches the aforementioned pepperoni in attack. Roxy catches it with terrifying dexterity, pops it in her mouth, and winks. “Dirk here had a good night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dirk says even though, no, he didn’t have a good night. He didn’t have a good night because he _did_ have a good night but not for the right reasons. It’s a confusing clusterfuck and it’s easier to just say yeah.

Roxy mouths, _three thousand_.

It’s also pretty easy to say that.

Behind his glasses, Jake’s eyes go wide. He looks to Dirk for confirmation and Dirk nods solemnly. “Well, I suppose that’s why you were out later than usual.”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

And that’s a good enough answer for Jake. He goes back to eating and that’s that.

But knowing that his extended absence had gone noticed makes Dirk’s heart do a funny thing. Somewhere between relief and ache.

It’s pathetic, he knows, but lately, he feels like he’s going through life existing as a ghost. Transparent, floating from one room to another. No one ever really seeing him. In a morbid sense, it’s why he likes his job. His clients aren’t supposed to see him. They’re supposed to touch and use him—half of them probably couldn’t pick him out in a lineup, despite the fact they’ve fucked him on more than one occasion. And he _wants_ it that way. Prefers it.

_They aren’t supposed to see him._

* * *

Every day, hour, and minute that passes helps to tug the yarn slowly suturing him back up. By the time the weekend hits, Dirk feels good as new. There’s still some cushion left in his bank account, so he gives himself a stay-at-home vacation and doesn’t do shit the rest of the week. He plans to continue the trend.

Jake’s holed up in the only noncommunal room in the house, which serves as both his workspace _and_ Roxy’s bedroom. There used to be a whole setup in the corner of the living room—a desk, computer, webcam, a thrifted studio light, a black sheet hanging tacked from the ceiling as a makeshift backdrop. The whole fuckin’ kit-and-kaboodle. But shit got weird, fast, and Roxy released full custody of her private space privileges so that Dirk could know a little peace.

Seriously. A man can only watch so many muted reruns of Roseanne with his boyfriend’s moans as the laugh track before he starts to lose all his marbles.

Thanks, Rox.

Now, he can safely flip through the channels at top volume—top volume being however loud he can get it before the downstairs neighbor starts pounding a broomstick on the ceiling. Today the maximum volume level is twelve. Dare he up it to thirteen?

Nah.

This is his weekend to do nothing and he’s going to lay back, relax, and find something good to watch without the symphony of a broom and—

Oh. Goddamnit.

John Crocker's smile lights up the screen. He’s in the middle of animatedly telling the talk show host about…something. It’s lost. Dirk can’t hear what he’s saying and not because the television isn’t turned up high enough. It’s because all the blood rushes to his ears like he has some kind of fucked up Pavlovian response to seeing a man in a—what is that? A sea-green suit?

C’mon, John. That color doesn’t even compliment his baby fuckin’ blues. Where the hell is his stylist. He probably has one of those, right? Of course, he does.

He should change the channel. Normally, he’d have changed the channel by now. His thumb hovers over the channel button. Frozen.

Why isn’t he changing the channel?

“Well, from what I hear,” the host says, trailing off, pausing so the audience can _ooo!_ and _aaa!_ at their appropriate marks. He’s watched enough basic cable and read enough tabloids to know what’s coming next. “You’re quite the ladies’ man.”

Dirk snorts.

John turns to the camera to shrug and give an impish grin and then he fucking winks. “Well. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Yeah, that’s because you kiss hookers,” Dirk says aloud.

To John.

Who is on the television.

Great. He’s lost it.

The rest of the interview goes pretty much exactly how he’d expected. They talk way too long about the recent sightings of him with Rose Lalonde— the famous author who happens to be the sister of Dave Lalonde, John’s college buddy and legendary director. Hot gossip, right there. Except that everyone with half a brain knows that Rose is a giant lesbian. He’s read her work. That’s some fucking symbolism on top of symbolism, layered with more symbolism sprinkled with just a little bit of irony. Mad props. Even if she didn’t dig the ladies, she’s way too fucking cool for John.

Oh well. At least Roxy isn’t home to make her trademark joke.

 _“I’m related to them,”_ she’ll say. Then, when you ask her how, she’ll give a new, off-the-wall answer. Her daughter. Cousin twice removed. Mom. Mom’s mom. The illegitimate child of an uncle on her dad’s side. Crinkled somewhere in the kitchen drawer is a family tree that they can no longer keep track of because it looks like someone plopped down a handful of spaghetti.

Honestly, it’s some god-tier irony in itself.

Dirk tunes back in. At least they’re done prying a conversational crowbar into his personal life. There’s some talk about his upcoming projects, some public appearances, questions about current events.

God, it’s fucking exhausting to watch.

Is he the only one that sees how John’s smile twitches before it starts like the battery is going dead? How in between all the prodding questions, his eyes go unfocused and fall into a vacant stare? How there might as well be a ventriloquist in the rafters, making an empty puppet dance? Holy fuck. It’s—

“John Crocker!” Jake says from the doorway, beaming at the television.

Dirk fumbles the remote like a hot potato. “Hm?”

“And here I thought you hated him.”

“I never said that,” Dirk mumbles. Lie. He has said that. Multiple times—but god, if he has to watch that fucking Netflix special one more time, he’s going to cancel the subscription. “Plus, I’m just laying here zoning out. Not thinking of anything.”

_Anyone._

“Oh. You’re always thinking of something,” Jake says, narrowing his eyes, lips curling at the corner.

Oh. Shit. Is he— _flirting?_

Dirk leans up on his elbows and makes an exaggerated show of raking his eyes up and down Jake’s scantily clothed body. He must’ve just finished up with a livestream if the lack of shirt and shine of sweat is anything to go by. Lucky bastards. They seem him naked more than he does.

Wiggling back to make room, Dirk pats the futon mattress lightly in invitation. The night’s still early and if Jake’s mostly unclothed and breaking out his flirty voice… Maybe he can still get a win out of this weird week.

He really needs a fucking win.

Watching Jake come when he says hither makes Dirk’s head feel dizzy. He’s only in his boxers, a towel draped around his neck and oh, god, maybe the reason he’s suddenly so lightheaded is that all of his blood has rushed to his dick.

But, god, who can blame him? When was the last time Jake’s held him down and spread him open? Or licked his way up Dirk’s stomach to moan around a mouthful of nipple, taking turns between teething at the sensitive skin or flicking his tongue against the bar penetrating it. Or how about the last time Jake fisted his hair to angle his head back, exposing his neck to suck bruises there. Or put a hand on his cheek, begging him to stay—

Jake sits down at the far end of the couch and all Dirk’s fantasies crash and burn around him. Some he buries in the wreckage on purpose, like the slipped memory of John.

Because he’s a glutton for punishment, he nudges Jake with his foot to get his attention.

Jake hums, distracted by the television. It’s a goddamn Macy’s commercial. Really, Jake?

“C’mere.”

“Dirk,” he warns.

“Jake.”

This time, Dirk's toes prod him in the side and Jake lets out an exasperated sigh. It’s either playful one or irritated one, and he chooses to interpret it as the former for his own sake. There’s a faint smile curling on Jake’s lips, but he otherwise stays focused on the screen, blue light bouncing off dark skin. No matter how big the rift between them gets, Dirk knows that he’ll never be too far away to find him beautiful.

“Lay with me?” he asks. The hollowness in his chest grows. There was a time where he didn’t have to ask for that.

Jake pretends not to hear him. Crocker’s back on the screen and god, hearing his voice makes Dirk feel sick and ashamed. He wants to turn it off. He wants to crawl into Jake’s arms and bury himself there. He wants Jake to hold him like John, a stranger, did.

God, his life is fucked.

Dirk directs his attention back to the TV and, subsequentially, John Crocker and tries not to dwell on the fact that nobody else sees how alone he is. John, of course. Not him. He’s got Jake, right there but a million miles away.

The rest of the segment is static.

* * *

The city of Los Angeles is never quiet and after years of living in its bowels, Dirk’s learned to take comfort in the sound of sirens, and car horns, dogs barking, and disembodied voices. It provides a unique white noise. At this point, he’s not even sure he could sleep peacefully without the occasional hum of helicopters.

Silence never did him any favors, anyway. Too easy to get lost in his head. Which is why he’s currently seeking refuge on the fire escape, feet dangling from the ledge while he lets the soundtrack of the city drown out his rampant thoughts.

He leans against cool metal in the hot night and takes a long drag off his cigarette and ashes onto the walkway three stories below him.

“Hey, tough guy,” Roxy from somewhere over his shoulder. The platform shifts and shakes as she crawls out of the window to join him. “Whatcha doing out here?”

Blowing a cloud of milky white from the side of his mouth, Dirk gives her the obvious answer. “Smoking.”

“Is see that.” She settles herself next to him, looping her arm with his to nestle her head on his shoulder. “I meant why are you out here all by your lonesome lookin’ like the Prince of Gloom and Doom?”

“Jesus. Can’t a guy smoke in peace?”

Roxy holds out two fingers and Dirk hands the rest of his cig over to her. She takes a puff and, through the smoke, says, “I don’t see why not. But you already know I’m not gonna let you. So, go ahead and cough it up. What’s on your mind, D-Stri?”

“Nothing,” Dirk resists. It lasts all of five seconds. He sighs and tilts his head to rest on hers, giving in gracefully. “I don’t know. I guess the feeling is mostly melancholy. That, or there are so many origins that I can’t choose any one point to pin the blame.”

“This might seem like a crazy idea but,” Roxy says, finishing off the cigarette and flicking the butt over the ledge, “I think you should try talking to him.”

Once again, she reads him like a book. Sees his spiderweb of issues and sticks her finger right through the middle.

Dirk snorts, unamused. “What am I supposed to do? Call him up? I don’t even have his number.”

"Wait." Roxy lifts her head, jarring his from its resting place. She looks…confused. “Who are you talking about?”

“Uh,” Dirk stammers, “I’m talking about the same person you are.”

“Jake,” she clarifies.

“Yeah,” he clarifies in return. “Obviously.”

“Dirk.”

His chest tightens, restricting and squeezing against his lungs until every breath feels painful. He tries to get up, but Roxy stops him with a hand on his arm, dragging him back down to the uncomfortable grate that’s been digging into his ass for the better part of an hour. He hadn’t even realized he’d been trying to escape.

She looks at him softly, eyes sad, and shakes her head. “Don’t.”

No context is needed. Dirk knows exactly what she’s warning him against.

He’ll pretend like he doesn’t and, if he’s lucky, she’ll do the same.

“Look. I know, okay? You know Jake isn’t the best at communication.” Roxy cuts him a look. “Yeah, I got it. I’m not either. It’s something we’re both really fuckin’ bad at. But I don’t think I’m ready for that particular brand of conversation yet.”

In his mind, he already sees, clear as day, how it will unfold. It’s not like he hasn’t made attempts before. Dirk will broach the subject of their drifting relationship and Jake will act oblivious and suddenly become very swamped with work for a few days. Then he’ll come back and be somewhat attentive, enough to satisfy Dirk’s pathetic wanton heart, until the cycle starts anew. Peppered in between those moments are real nuggets of happiness when they both let their guard down enough to be their genuine selves. When Dirk lets go and makes a conscious effort to not control how Jake perceives him and their relationship, and Jake’s not pretending to live up to that standard.

The problem is, Dirk knows the problem and he knows the solution. He’s known it for a while.

“When you’re ready,” Roxy says gently into his shoulder. “Who knows? It might not turn out like you think.”

“Prince of Doom and Gloom,” Dirk reminds her.

“You’re the prince of something alright,” she chuckles, reaching out to pat his chest, right above his heart. “Things will be okay.”

He takes her hand in his, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Thanks, Rox.”

“C’mon, let’s go back inside. I’m sweatin’ my ass off and I need a drink.”

Just like that, she turns the pensive atmosphere on its head. Dirk lets himself be pulled to his feet, shoved through the window, and ordered to relax on the futon. He doesn’t relax but he does sit down. She makes him a virgin daquiri to compliment her very slutty one and takes control of the remote.

Later that night, after she’s passed out and sawing logs, he scoops her up and carries her to the bedroom. Jake’s sitting in the dark, watching a movie on the computer with his bulky, green headphones. Before he can say anything, Dirk soundlessly shushes him, nodding down to Sleeping Beauty draped in his arms. Jake gets the memo and together they maneuver the deadweight known as Roxy Lalonde into bed.

“Out like a light,” Jake whispers fondly, clapping Dirk on the shoulder for a job well done.

“I’m next,” Dirk sighs. “You comin’?”

“Let me finish my movie.” Sensing the palpable disappointment, he darts in to press a quick kiss to Dirk’s cheek. Looks like he’s not playing the oblivious card tonight. “I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

That doesn’t leave much room for discussion, so Dirk manages a weak smile and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. The living room feels miles away as he sluggishly makes his way through the hall alone, stripping off his clothes as he goes. By the time he collapses face-first into the lumpy mattress, there’s a trail of his socks, shirt, and pants leading up to the futon.

Turns out, a _jiffy_ is a shit unit of measurement. Dirk falls asleep alone, attempting to untangle all the red string on his metaphorical corkboard, looking for the source of his hilariously shitty misfortune. They all lead back to the same place, every time.

_Him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longish note incoming. you may or may not have noticed but i've added the tag "aromantic jake". i actually meant to do that originally but forgot. oops!
> 
> aro jake is a huge headcanon for me, being aro myself. it'll become obvious in later chapters but i just want it to be clear (because i realize he's painted with the asshole brush here) that jake does care about dirk. coming to terms with this identity can be difficult and unfortunately, especially when you're in a relationship, it can lead to people unintentionally getting hurt. obviously that's not the case with all aromantics, but i'm largely drawing off my own experiences and struggles. this is why communication is important! something that they aren't doing. but they will!
> 
> it's important to me to have dirk and jake learn to be open and honest, look at themselves and see that their individual wants and needs aren't compatible, that there is nothing wrong with that, and then work towards building a healthy relationship that works for them. platonic love is just as important as romantic!. that said, the journey getting there is gonna be a little bittersweet. sorry!
> 
> so, don't be upset with him please. :') he's a good boy, just really bad at being honest with himself and others right now.
> 
> all that said, dirk and roxy as BFFs is my entire life. we will get back on the crocker train next chapter.
> 
> mwah! thanks for reading and thank you for all of the wonderful feedback so far! :') i love you guys.


	5. Chapter 5

Late Tuesday afternoon, Roxy drags Dirk into the bathroom and shoves a towel at his chest.

“Shower,” she insists. “Get all gussied up, you’re comin’ to work with me tonight.”

Dirk gapes like a fish out of water, looking from the raggedy blue towel, to her, to the shower, to his reflection—yikes, no thanks. Back to Roxy then. She’s already ready, pink hair curled and pinned, makeup immaculate as always. A sleek, black halter dress hugs her hourglass frame, and she rests a hand on her hip, cocking it to the side. The picture of both sass and elegance. He trails his eyes back to her face, where she’s got one perfectly sculpted brow raised. If he were any other man, she’d probably call him out for ogling. But he’s not any other man. He’s Dirk Strider and he’s gayer than hell.

“What?”

“You heard me! You’re coming with me tonight.”

“Okay, let me try again.” Dirk clears his throat. “ _Why_?”

Her shoulders slump, lip jutting out. She’s got the puppy-dog pout on lock, a dangerous weapon to possess but she wields it wisely. Mostly to get her way. Like right now.

“Because! You’ve been moping around the apartment for days,” Roxy accuses, but not falsely. She gestures toward Dirk’s general region in horror. “How long have you been wearing those sweatpants? Be honest!”

He looks down, frowning. They’re not that bad, right? Bits of crumbs stick to him; a few orange soda stains; one pant leg rolled up to his knee. Okay, maybe she has a point, they’ve been through the wringer and back.

Since he doesn’t have room to argue, Dirk says, “I’m on vacation.”

“No, you’re on the expressway to rock bottom.”

“That accusation implies that I’m not already _at_ rock bottom, which is horrifying. Thanks.”

“Shower, now.” Roxy smiles brightly, giving his shoulder a firm pat before she leaves him to it. At the threshold, she turns to add, “Oh, and get pretty!”

The door clicks shut before he can argue. Not like he’d planned to anyway. She’s tenacious and he knows better. Plus, more than anything, she’s right.

Their shower sucks, and that’s putting it mildly. The hot water lasts fifteen minutes at most; after that, it switches straight from _lobster broil_ to _arctic chill_ with no lukewarm in between. He’s perfected the art of the quick wash. In; scrub hair; scrub body; shave; rinse; out. There’s barely enough time for the mirrors to fog up.

A shame because he loves a good shower. Who doesn’t?

Today’s no different. He’s in and out, stepping out to dry himself off, squeezing the moisture from his hair with the towel before wrapping his head up in it. Roxy had told him to “get pretty”, and so he takes a long, hard look at himself in the cracked mirror. Gettin’ pretty isn’t a possibility for him. He’s all sharp angles, pale skin, and freckles, with purple bags beneath his eyes that hollow him out.

Isn’t vacation supposed to rejuvenate you? How the hell does he manage to look worse? Oh well. He might as well try to do something with himself, no harm in that.

Dirk yanks some of Roxy’s concealer from her overcrowded kaboodle and pats it on the worst bits of shadow. He should have her do this; he’s not any good at it. Every time he tries, his complexion comes out looking too yellow or cakey. There’s a trick, he just doesn’t know it. But eyeliner? Now _that_ he has a handle on; probably because his main objective is to make it look as shitty as possible. Grabbing the charcoal pencil, he lines his eyes, top and bottom, and uses the most advanced tool on the market to smudge and blend his lids—his finger.

Beauty gurus _hate_ him.

On the counter, there’s a neat stack of clothes that he recognizes as his. Roxy must have popped in during his shower, and yep. That’s definitely her work. He holds up the pants, his gray ones which happen to be the tightest pair he owns, and sighs. It’s gonna be hell getting in and out of these but, damn, they _do_ make his ass look great. No small feat considering he barely has one to begin with.

The shirt she’s picked for him is boring, just a black muscle tank with exaggerated armholes that nearly cut all the way down to the bottom hem, giving a tasteless peek-a-boo to his skinny waist and ribs. It’s made for dudes with toned, tanned beach bods—dudes like Jake—not waifish rent boys. Whatever. He puts it on anyway and tries not his gaze linger on his reflection.

He reaches for the hairdryer and stops. Fuck it. For once, he doesn’t feel like messing with the flat iron. Unwrapping the towel, he runs his fingers through his hair, curls already beginning to dry in stiff, fried waves back away from his face.

When he finally drags his feet back into the living room, Roxy still gives a squeal of approval and two thumbs up, despite the fact he looks and feels like roadkill. She tells him that he looks _super, super hot, D-Stri,_ and then licks her finger so she can press it to his arm and pretend it sizzles. Next, she makes him do a little spin while she applauds and wolf-whistles. It doesn’t do jack shit for his confidence, but it does make him smile.

Roxy tells Dirk, sincerely, on their way down the block, not to worry; that he looks good. In return, he tells her that it doesn’t matter whether or not that’s true. Because, for one, it _isn’t_ —but, again, it also doesn’t matter. He’s not on the clock. He ain’t tryin’ to impress anyone.

The knowing smile she gives him is a touch disconcerting.

* * *

It’s a goddamn Tuesday and the street is dead but, honestly, that’s sorta what he’d been hoping for. If business were booming, that’d mean his night would be split between chatting it up with Roxy and standing awkwardly against the wall, waiting for her to get back.

So far, it’s been nothing but a load of fuckin’ crickets.

“C’mon, Rox. Let’s just call it a night,” Dirk mumbles, stamping out the butt of his cigarette on the bottom of his boot. She gives him a look, thoroughly unimpressed, and he sighs. “Look, I’m not saying let’s go home and put our depression pants on. I’m saying let’s just go somewhere else. What about that club you’re always talking about?”

“Dirk Strider wants to go to a club,” she says skeptically, tapping her nails against her arm. “You don’t even drink!”

He shrugs.

“You don’t dance.” Okay, now she’s listing off accusations, ticking them off one-by-one with her fingers. “You don’t like loud music. You don’t like crowds.”

“I get it. I’m a giant fuckin’ stick in the mud, alright,” Dirk complains but doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t argue because, once again, he can’t. She’s right. He fucking hates clubs. They’re loud and crowded, two points Roxy has already so graciously pointed out. And, if there’s anything that he hates worse than dancing, it’s house music and people trying to get handsy for free. Which brings him full-circle to why he _does_ like clubs. They’re full of people desperate enough to _pay_ to get handsy. He didn’t start this night looking to go home with anyone, but he’s starting to get antsy.

Plus, he’s still got that weekend beach trip to fund, and money dwindles fast in the city.

“Ah. C’mon,” Roxy says. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong.” Before she can say anything else, he bumps her shoulder. “I know you want to, so let’s just call a rideshare and go.”

“Okay, but it’s Tuesday,” she says, scrunching up her nose. “Who the hell goes to a club on a Tuesday?”

“Sad people, Rox.” Dirk pauses, purposely giving her a second to assume he’s talking about them. He leans in conspiringly and adds, “Sad, desperate people with loads of cash to burn.”

He can’t see her eyes behind the heart-shaped shades, but he knows they’re beaming with shameless glee. It reads on the way her mouth stretches into a wide grin, the way she steeples her fingers beneath her chin and bounces on her toes.

“You know I love when you scheme,” Roxy purrs. She’s teetering on the cusp of agreeing; all she has to do is whip out her phone and request a ride.

But.

The excitement vanishes and she bites her lip, looking back to the empty street. “I dunno.”

Okay, something is majorly up. The Roxy Lalonde he knows would be all over a proposition like that. Not standing there twiddling her thumbs, stammering and grasping for an excuse to turn it down. Highly suspect.

Dirk goes to tell her this but the noise that comes out sounds more like tires on asphalt. He snaps his mouth shut, surprised and startled. For a brief and horrifying moment, Dirk lives in a reality where he involuntarily makes car noises—but then he sees Roxy craning to look past him and oh, right. Cars _do_ exist.

He squints at Roxy, crossing his arms and looking over his shoulder, more than ready to tell whoever the fuck it is to kick rocks. He doesn’t get that far. No. The entire world comes to a grinding halt and Dirk’s heart becomes intimately acquainted with his throat.

All cars sorta look the same to Dirk, and he’d assume this was just another black sedan with tinted windows, not an uncommon sight in his line of work. Except the back window is rolled down to reveal a hauntingly familiar face.

John, giving him an enthusiastic wave from the backseat.

Dirk whips back around and his heart finally resumes its vital actions tenfold. His heart beats so hard that it hurts.

“Rox,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “What the fuck?”

She’s guilty. Oh, she’s super guilty. The shades might keep her obscured for cameras, but not from him. Never from him. He sees every ounce of panic on that pretty face. She’s still lifting to her tip-toes, straining to see around him, doing her best to ignore the panicked anger in his tone.

“Roxy,” Dirk warns again. “What did you do?”

“Nothin’!” she finally says, exasperated. “I didn’t know—Oh, _goddamnit_ , you know I can’t lie to you. Look, he just wants to talk.”

“You tricked me.”

“Maybe,” she says, biting her lip. “Would you have come if I’d told you otherwise?”

That’s a damn good question. One that he knows the answer to. No. He wouldn’t have. He’d finally scrubbed that night with Crocker from his very recent memories. The weird, unwarranted yearning he’d been plagued with had finally subsided, leaving him with a clear enough head to realize that he was being straight up fuckin’ preposterous. He and John weren’t— _aren’t_ —the same. To perpetuate the idea that they could be would only serve to hurt him worse.

“No.”

“See?”

Behind him, a car engine still purrs and without looking back, Dirk holds up a finger signaling _give me a second._

“Aren’t you the one that told me to drop it?”

“Yeah,” Roxy sighs, shoulders slumping. “That was before I spent the night with lover boy over there and, well. Dirk, sweetie, I love you—I truly do—but, oh my god, having my client ask about you mid-handjob really threw off my game.”

Dirk’s head spins like a buffering wheel and the file for his linguistic comprehension never boots up. What the fuck did she just say? What did she just _imply?_

The only thing he manages is a hoarse wheeze and, pathetically, “He asked about me?”

“Yessssss!” Roxy groans. She takes Dirk by the arms and spins him around, pushing him toward the car. John’s politely looking ahead and not at them. “Now, go see what he wants! Unless you both wanna continue to wallow in misery over each other.”

“I haven’t _wallowed_ ,” Dirk says in a harsh whisper.

“Mhm,” she hums, unconvinced. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

With that, Roxy slaps his ass and sends him stumbling forward, gracelessly. It’s a small blessing that Crocker isn’t watching because there’s no smooth recovery to be found. Dirk regains his footing like a newborn deer on shaky legs and shoves his hands in his pockets, sauntering over to the window, aiming for nonchalant.

“Hey.”

John feigns being startled like he’s only just noticed Dirk approaching. Dirk knows better, he clocked him sneaking peripheral glances the moment he stepped down from the curb. Not slick, Crocker.

There’s a second delay between John’s real smile and his fake one. “Mr. Strider!”

Dirk props against the car. To get a better look, he tilts his shades up to perch on his head and immediately frowns. Even in the yellowed streetlight, he can tell something is…off. John’s pupils are blown, nearly black, and he’s rapidly tapping, tapping, tapping blunt nails against his bouncing knee.

“Dirk’s fine,” he says, slow and cautious. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“Do you mind getting in the car for this?”

“Yeah, actually I do.”

The beaming, toothy smile falters. “Oh, uh, okay. I’ll be honest, I’m thrown for a loop here.” His laugh sounds anxious. “I hadn’t really expected you to decline.”

“Yeah, well,” Dirk shrugs, tone bitter. “That’s what you get for expectin’ shit from me.”

John groans, massaging his temples, and Dirk takes quick note of the subtle gleam of sweat residing there. “I know that I didn’t give you a very good reason to want to see me again,” he says, eyes downcast. “I’d just…Please, five minutes of your time. That’s all I ask.”

Man, that’s sad. Dirk casts a withering look over his shoulder and before he can agree out of pity alone, John says, “Don’t make me beg. I’m not very good at it.”

Dirk doesn’t miss the flirtatious tone or the way John tilts his head, peering up at him, lips curled into a smile. That look does something to him, and god, he hates that Crocker is this handsome when he has no right to be. He’s weak. He’s a weak, weak man.

With an abject sigh, Dirk slaps the roof of the car. “Five minutes.”

There must be a fucking screw loose in his head, a real glutton for self-torture. He remembers exactly what happened last time, the downward spiral that John Crocker sent him on. It’s not fair to blame the guy, it’s not like he meant for it to happen. The fault can be squarely pinned on his fucked-up, emotional issues that stem back to adolescence and his—

Dirk stops his thoughts abruptly.

Nope. Not even fucking going there—not unless _he_ wants to be the one with performance issues.

He rounds the car, eyes finding Roxy over the hood. She gives him a thumbs up. He gives her the bird and yanks open the door, sliding into the backseat before she can return it. They can talk later.

“Thank you,” John sighs the moment the door click shuts. “Listen, I—”

“I thought you didn’t kiss and tell,” Dirk quips.

That smacks John silent for a second, his smile flickering like a busted lightbulb. Then, with a dawning realization, his grin grows, stretching across his face and souring to smug. “You watched my interview?” he asks. Dirk’s silence proves to be answer enough. “You watched my interview!”

“You’re missing my point,” Dirk says, shifting uncomfortably, embarrassment at being caught fluttering in his chest. “You asked Roxy about me. Not cool, bro.”

“Why not? I wanted to see you again and you didn’t leave a number. The drawing though…” John whistles lowly, shaking his head. “Might have to take you to court for that slanderous depiction.”

“It’s accurate,” Dirk counters. The coiled tension in him loosens but he quickly reels it back in. Relaxing in John’s company is a no-go. He’s gotta let him down easy, get out, scold Roxy, and then emotionally recoup. “Plus, I don’t give out my number to clients. They know where to find me if I want to be available.”

“Another one of your personal rules?” John uses air-quotes around _rules_ , for some reason. Like they’re some arbitrary construct existing only in Dirk’s head.

Not true. He’s got them written down. Somewhere.

“Yes,” Dirk half-lies. It wasn’t a rule before, but it is now. No one has ever asked for his number before. “Now, what did you want to talk to me about? The clock is ticking.” For emphasis, he taps his wrist.

“Let me make it up to you.” It comes out in a breathless rush, John’s fingers curling into the front of his pants. He stares at Dirk, hopeful and wide-eyed like he didn’t just ask to make it up to a prostitute. Sensing Dirk’s trepidation, he continues, “I know I didn’t give a convincing performance last time—”

Nope. Dirk stops him right there. “If this is about patching up your bruised ego, I’m not interested. You don’t have to prove shit to me, Crocker. Whether or not you can get it up? That doesn’t matter. I don’t fuckin’ care.”

John blinks, that made-for-television smile he’s been projecting all night finally fading to how he really feels. Sad. Crestfallen.

It makes Dirk feel like absolute shit.

“It’s not just about that.”

Dirk pretends to be uninterested. “Oh?”

“No. I mean, I won’t lie to you. It’s a part of it—I fucking. I fucking hate that I made an ass of myself. I just kept thinking, over and over— _Sheesh! Bet the poor guy left thinking I didn’t think he was attractive!_ But that’s not it. I was really, really into you.”

“You mentioned,” Dirk mumbles, face on fire. He can’t look at John.

“If I’m being honest, it scared me.”

“I get that,” Dirk says because he does. John scared him too but not in the same way. His fear wasn’t rooted in a gay panic—just that crippling dread of being seen. Business as usual.

“Let me make it up to you,” John repeats. “Same as last time?”

Dirk perks up.

Fuck.

No. He shouldn’t even consider it, but…Another three grand for John’s boner to wilt like a boiled noodle? That’s tempting.

But it’s also…God. He doesn’t know if he can do it. He doesn’t know if he has the strength to watch John struggle and beg for the company of a paid whore. He doesn’t know if he can spend another night feeling safe in a stranger’s arms because that shit is fucked up. It’s so fucked up. It’s even more fucked up that he wants it more than the promise of sex and money.

Though, as long as he remembers this is just egotistical damage-control on John’s part, he should be safe.

But…he isn’t gonna swindle him out of that much again. Enticing as it sounds.

Dirk sighs heavily. “Three hundred.”

John’s in the middle of opening his wallet, pulling out the fattest stack of cash Dirk’s ever seen. He pauses to blink. “Well, I might have made a withdrawal at the bank earlier...”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, dude.”

“It’s yours.” He holds out the money, looking at Dirk expectantly.

Dirk shoves it back to him, even though his fingers itch to snatch it all up. Shove in his pocket. Make off like a thief in the night.

“No.”

Without breaking eye contact, John rolls his window back down, letting in the muggy, night air. “Either you take it, or the pavement does.”

“That’s dirty,” Dirk says. He still holds his hand out. “Fine.”

John’s early demure fluster vanishes. “I don’t know,” he says, clicking his tongue. Teasing and not the least bit contrite. “I think you have to ask nicely now.”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything.”

John gives Dirk a slow, contemplating once-over, an impish smirk curling on his lips. The atmosphere shifts from slightly awkward to slightly suffocating; of the sensual and erotic variety. The kind of suffocation that Dirk’s shamelessly into. John hangs his hand out of the window, slumping relaxed into the seat, thighs falling open. He jerks his head in a come-hither motion and Dirk’s entire body goes hot.

Alright, then.

He’ll bite.

Dirk scoots across the seat, balancing a hand on John’s shoulder to lean over him, making a reach for the money. It should feel degrading, embarrassing, even shameful. But the only thing Dirk truly feels is a rush of warmth run through him, from his cheeks to the pit of his stomach, darting straight down between his legs. He knows exactly what he’s doing when he stretches across John toward the window, back arched. His fingers reach for the money, but it’s just for show—he has no intention of getting that far. It’s all a clever ruse, proven true when John takes Dirk by the waist, guiding him onto his lap.

“Dirty,” Dirk reiterates, straddling John’s hips, settling his weight on the tops of his thighs.

John beams. “I think I prefer the word intuitive!”

Slowly, he pulls his hand in from the window and tucks the money deep into the back pocket of his jeans. It’s a tight fight—thanks, Rox—and Dirk’s entire body thrums with electricity while John’s fingers dig against him, pressing into his ass through the denim more than necessary.

“I don’t remember you being this cocky,” Dirk murmurs.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to remedy, Mr. Strider,” John says, voice low. He punctuates the reply with a bold kiss at the hollow of Dirk’s throat, just a tickle of lips, and again at the curve of his Adam’s apple. “Do we have a deal?”

The money’s already in his pocket and—fuck. If he’s honest? His mind was made up the moment he opened the car door. Hell, the moment John rolled up to the curb he was doomed. Might as well sign over his sanity. Shake hands with the devil. Plus, John kissing up his neck, just below his ear, close to the danger zone, feels fucking fantastic. His whole body shivers for it, weak in anticipation. 

He might regret this.

Then again, he might not.

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i hadn't intended to split this chapter in two...but then the first part ended up being close to 4k, and i still had about 4k to write. so. next chapter we get some more good dirkjohn content. finally! despite them hooking up relatively early...this puppy is a slow burn. i was told to say: whole fic steps on gabs  
> love u


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, thank god i split this chapter up because this ended up being close to 6k. they finally spend some more time together. and how did i manage to make TWO cereal references? we will never know.

Same hotel. Different suite. If they keep at it, they’re gonna build a reputation. The whole place will be teeming with hot gossip featuring John Crocker and his young, male escort. Tabloids will eat that shit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

To be more careful, next time he’ll suggest some dingy as fuck motel; where laying on the bed too long gives you scabies and there’s a box of condoms in the bedside drawer, left from the last worker as a courtesy gift. Housekeeping sure as hell didn’t move them, they barely change the sheets. Yeah. He’ll give John the true red-light district experience. Maybe even wear some fishnet tights under his jeans for a nice surprise.

The joke here is that there won’t be a next time and Dirk isn’t going to sit his bare ass on some bedbug-infested, stained mattress.

So, he basks in the luxury of expensive sheets against his naked skin. He savors the view of John hovering over him, a hand planted on either side of his head, equally unclothed and exposed. Getting from the car, to the room, to the bed, is a blur of hands and teeth. He’s pretty sure there’s a bruise on his collar bone and five more on his ass in the shape of John’s fingertips.

It’s a lot like last time. John’s in a trance, looking him over with a raw hunger, gaze dragging like a hot knife. The only difference is that he’s fully hard between his legs, and when he dips down to mouth at Dirk’s sternum, it grazes against the inside of Dirk’s thigh, leaving a wet trail.

That’s _new,_ and it takes every ounce of control Dirk has not to beg for John to slot their hips together, line them up so he can grind against him.

He didn’t get to see him at his full potential last time, and even though it’s still difficult to get a good look from his current vantage point, he’s thoroughly fuckin’ impressed. Damn. Now he gets what all the hype is about. John's thick and uncut and holy shit, he better know how to use that thing or it’s gonna be a cosmic dishonor to big dicks everywhere.

Dirk sucks in a breath at the press of John’s lips against his hot, flushed skin. He places a kiss right against the center of Dirk's chest, then another lower, and lower, and lower still. Until his tongue is tickling the sensitive area that resides a hair too close to his bellybutton—and, by approximation, a hair too close to his dick. It twitches and Dirk swears he feels it scrape against John’s throat.

Fuck.

That’s embarrassing. But it’s also hot.

This isn’t how he’d planned for this night to go. He’d meant to tease John in the car until there was no way he’d soften up before Dirk got a chance to get him in at least one orifice. The original blueprint saw him stripping off John’s clothes, pushing him on the bed, and riding him until they both saw stars, constellations, galaxies…clovers, and balloons. An entire fucking bowl of Lucky Charms behind their eyes.

John wants to make it up to him? That’s fair. But…Dirk.

In some inscrutable way, he’d wanted to do the same.

But that’s not what’d happened. John had stripped _his_ clothes off and pushed _him_ to the bed and now.

Now he’s between Dirk’s thighs, hooking his legs to rest over his broad shoulders, and smiling like he doesn’t have a rock hard cock next to his cheek. The absolute picture of decorous. It’s kinda ridiculous, in an endearing sort of way.

Dirk wiggles so he can prop himself up on his elbows. “What do you think you’re doin’ down there?”

“I’ve given it some thought,” he says.

“Dangerous.”

John reprimands him with a quick slap to his thigh; it’s light and teasing, but the skin-on-skin contact is still enough to leave a sting. It prompts an innate desire to wrap his legs around John’s head and squeeze. He tries not to give in to the urge, as much as he’d like John to wear him like a pair of earmuffs.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at,” John says, trailing off while looking pointedly at Dirk’s dick to convey the context. “You know. _That._ ”

“Practice makes perfect,” Dirk says, but the last syllable turns into a sharp hiss. John grabs his dick and strokes from base to tip, stopping to rub the pad of his thumb along the slit. If he wasn’t leaking before, he sure the fuck is now.

John pulls away, examining the slick shine on his skin. Contemplating. He darts his tongue out to taste it and Dirk damn near projects into another plane of existence. A timeline where he grabs a handful of black hair and shoves that pretty mouth down on his cock without preamble.

But they aren’t in that timeline.

They’re in the one where John’s paying him to be his living blow-up doll and, yeah, that means typically _he’s_ the one giving head but if John wants to experiment, he ain’t gonna stop him again. Last time, he declined his ticket to _Sloppy Amateur Blowjob Hour_ and spent the next couple of days regretting it.

“I’d rather give you something you’d enjoy,” John says.

For fuck’s sake.

Dirk falls back against the pillow, dragging his hands down his face, muffling a groan. “Dude, I don’t know how to tell you this but I’m going to enjoy your mouth anywhere near my junk.”

John’s grin widens and oh, oh _no_. That look.

He’s in trouble.

“Well then!” John says enthusiastically. “You’re going to _love_ this!”

The first press of tongue has Dirk seizing up, body pulling taut like a bowstring as he scrambles at the sheets to twist them in his fists. The second press doesn’t have him acting any more dignified. John’s thumbs pull him apart and—Jesus Christ, he’s relentless. He knows when to lick, he knows when to suck, to prod. He knows when to pull back and let Dirk catch his breath, all so he can bite at the tender place at the inside of his thigh.

Yeah. This isn’t his first rodeo. He may even have a trophy.

“Shit,” Dirk gasps.

Helplessly, he lifts his hips to help John’s angle. For the first time in ages, Dirk wants to be greedy. He wants more and John’s willing to give it to him, finally breaching him with his tongue, pushing slowly in. It’s a malleable kind of firmness, hot and wet and perfect and—fuck, no, why is he pulling away?

John slides Dirk’s legs off his shoulders and sits up, wordlessly grabbing him by the waist and flips himuntil he’s flat on his stomach. The sudden change in scenery has his head spinning, and Dirk’s trying to deal with vertigo when John’s hands find his hips again to yank him up so that he’s on elbows and knees, ass in the air. He doesn’t have time to think about how hot that is before John’s diving back in like a man starving.

From this angle, he has no issue tongue-fucking him.

Dirk’s back arches in a fine curve, a bead of sweat tickling its way down his spine, and he shamelessly rocks back to meet him because fuck, it’s not enough. He wants the real deal, needs it. There’s a teasing pressure alongside the wriggling muscle that’s working him open. John’s thumb presses dangerously close and Dirk would give anything for him to just do it. Push in with tongue _and_ finger.

“John,” Dirk manages to get out, but he doesn’t know what to ask for. He has no idea what he even wants. Anything. Everything.

Not like it matters anyway. He slips a finger in and Dirk’s reduced to a mumbling, whiny mess. A nonsensical string of babble consisting of John’s name, profanity, and pitched moans. It fills the air until suddenly, Dirk can hear another voice in the choir. John moans, muffled in his ministrations, and his fingers dig in, burying themselves in tender, supple flesh.

He’s going to die like this, Dirk realizes through the haze of building pleasure. He’s going to die with John Crocker’s tongue buried in his ass.

“Fuck,” he hisses, knees slipping on the sheets. “Fuck, _fuck, fuck_ —”

And, if not die, at the very least, he’s going to come from this.

John pulls back and Dirk slouches into the bed, pressing his face against the pillow to suck in harsh breaths. It isn’t until he’s no longer being touched that he realizes how close he was to coming undone. Between his legs, his cock hangs, heavy and hard, and he does his best to keep from grinding down into the mattress. His impending release is spring-loaded, and it won’t take much to pull the trigger.

“See?” John says, cheery and slightly out of breath, and gives Dirk a playful smack on the ass. “I was right!”

Dirk can _hear_ the wink in his voice. The projected bravado. The cameras-are-watching smile. Fuck. He knows John’s high as a kite; Dirk’s been around the block enough to know the signs. But it’s all still another performance; another cleverly constructed ruse to fool an audience.

But there’s no audience here. Just the two of them—and yet, John feels the need to put up those walls. Maybe the brutal vulnerability of their last encounter left him all mangled inside too. That, at least, is comforting to know, in a sordid sort of way.

“Yeah,” Dirk says, turning away from the pillow to speak clearly. “Bet you took home the blue ribbon at the county fair for eatin’ ass.”

It catches John off guard, and he chokes out a laugh, fumbling with the lube cap. He pulls himself into the joke easily, squaring up his shoulders with false pride, making himself appear doubly haughty and arrogant. Peacocking for no good reason.

“I did!” John professes. He gives a Cheshire grin. “You should see the award for my sausage!”

Dirk rolls his eyes, groaning. “Prized pig? That sounds about right.”

John laughs again. Each time he does it, it sounds more and more genuine. Less like that artificially canned shit that he tries to pass off as laughter on television. And, each time, it needles its way into a dangerous place within Dirk’s chest.

“You wound me, Mr. Strider,” he says, pouting.

“Nothin’ you can’t take.” Dirk doesn’t actually know that, but the frown cracks a second later.

John places a hand on either side of Dirk’s hips and guides him back around. Maybe the blow-up doll analogy wasn’t that far off. John has no issue with maneuvering and positioning him to fit his fancy.

His current fancy is Dirk flat on his back, similar to their original position. John crawls over him, gathering up one of Dirk’s legs beneath the knee to hold him open and, with his free hand, presses a slicked up finger where he’s already relaxed and loose.

Dirk whines, low and needy, and John leans in, bending him in half, smiling while he works in a second.

“You’re funny,” John claims, crooking two fingers just right. Dirk arches off the bed, panting at the stretch that burns just on the edge of too much and not enough. He smiles again, close enough to brush his lips along the shell of Dirk’s ear, whispering, “I think maybe you should have been the comedian.”

With the way he’s working those fingers, Dirk fights the urge to suggest maybe he should have been the whore. That might not go over well but, damn, he means it as a compliment. Not that he’d get very far with his flattery—John’s got his hand between his legs, moving two thick fingers with expert precision. Talking isn’t that easy when he’s already moaning.

The third makes Dirk dig his nails into the meat of John’s back, just below his shoulder blades. He drags down, clawing his way across tanned skin in a futile attempt to anchor himself. It barely works. He’s light-headed and it’s either because all his blood has rushed to his dick or because his mind can’t process what’s happening.

Years. It’s been fuckin’ years since the last time someone’s touched him like they wanted him to feel good.

But. John.

He finds that spot inside Dirk that makes him go nuts. The spot that makes Dirk take a fistful of John’s hair, tugging him down so he can press lips against his neck. The spot that makes Dirk’s legs shake and wrap around John’s hips. The spot that sends Dirk so teeteringly close to the edge, he’s afraid he might come hands-free.

John finds that spot and he rubs at it without mercy, fucking Dirk with his fingers while his mouth alternates between biting and kissing the taut line of his throat.

He’s more than ready, probably has been for a while, but as much as Dirk wants John to fuck him properly, he doesn’t want _this_ to end. He’s never felt so…wanted. John’s hard as a rock, rubbing against Dirk’s inner thigh every time he rocks in time with the thrust of his fingers. He could have pushed in at any time, taken what he wanted; there’s no way he doesn’t feel how loose he’s already worked him. But every time Dirk moans, John moans in tandem; like he’s getting off to Dirk’s pleasure.

And that’s fucking exhilarating.

But he’s also so close to coming and god, he doesn’t want to cross the finish line without John inside him.

“John—” His name comes out like a needy plea and John shudders against him, groaning and biting down hard at the juncture of his neck. “John, fuck. I need you—”

_I need you to fuck me._

That’s what Dirk means to say, but the sudden loss of fingers leaves him gasping instead, his body violently protesting against at the loss of contact. Part of him wants to grab John by the wrist and pull him back in. Another part wants to see what he’s gonna do.

Another smaller, but very vocal, part reminds him that he didn’t finish his sentence.

He needs to tell John that he doesn’t need him, not like that. 

Dirk lifts his head and shit—it feels like it’s a hundred pounds, lolling heavy on his shoulders. He powers through it, determined to suss out what’s happening between his legs.

The answer, he finds, is John rolling on a condom with jittery hands. Fuck. His whole body is shaking.

He must feel Dirk’s eyes on him because he’s looking up, glasses askew on the bridge of his nose; hair sticking up and thoroughly wrecked from Dirk’s fingers; face shining with sweat; pupils like large, dark voids. Black holes that suck him in, making it impossible for him to breathe or escape.

“What?” John asks, blinking. Innocent, if Dirk didn’t know any better.

His heart lurches in his chest.

“Nothin’, just need you to get on with it.”

John grins, slow and sly. “Is that what you need?” Shuffling forward, he situates himself between Dirk’s splayed legs, running hands up the flanks of his thighs. “Tell me.”

Dirk swallows. “Yeah.”

He needs it so badly he can’t see straight. He needs John in and on him. Talking to him. Touching him. He needs to let go of reality, to live in a moment where this is real, where this is something he always has. That’s risky. A slippery fuckin’ slope. But he already knows he’s gonna crash hard after this, there’s no stopping it. The train has left the station.

Might as well go all the way.

Dirk wraps a hand around the back of John’s neck and pulls him down. “Yeah,” he says again, lower, trying to ease the desperation out of his begging via playful antagonization. Bumps his nose against the strong line of John’s jaw and murmurs, “I need it.”

John pushes in, breath ragged.

Even with all his prep, it’s a tight squeeze but Dirk’s body still yields, clinging like it doesn’t want to let go. John doesn’t stop until he’s to the hilt, buried completely, hanging his head between his trembling arms that work diligently to keep him upright. Dirk soothes his hands over him in a careful exploration, from his wrists to his shoulders, fingers trailing up his neck, drawing forward to trace his jaw, tilting John’s chin back up to look at him.

When their eyes meet again, it’s unnervingly intimate. John’s looking at him with wide eyes, mouth parted. It’s hard to pin the exact emotion.

Oh, Dirk realizes. This is probably the first time John’s ever been inside another man.

“Hey,” Dirk says, low and soft, his honest attempt at comforting. “You alright?”

John doesn’t say anything but bites his lip and gives a feeble nod. Then, he dips down and—

Dirk turns his head at the last second, just in time for John’s mouth to land somewhere below his ear. Fuck. His heart races in the dawning recognition.

John had just gone in for a fucking _kiss._ What the fuck.

The rebuff doesn’t deter him though, and he seamlessly dives into kissing Dirk’s throat like he’s been doing all night.

Only, this time, it’s accompanied with him moving his hips, pulling out slowly to push back in.

“There we go,” Dirk encourages. John does it again, harder and surer of himself, knocking a moan from Dirk’s lips. “Just like that— _ahhh, fuck_.”

“What do you like?” John asks, a breathy huff against his ear. “Tell me how you want it.”

Dirk squeezes his eyes shut, whimpering. Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_. There’s a right answer here. He wants John to stay like this, missionary and close, nuzzling into his neck while he rolls his hips and fucks him nice and slow. He wants John telling him how good he is, how beautiful. The desire for something personal and intimate makes his stomach churn with shame. He can’t tell John what he wants because it makes him feel pathetic and weak.

Grabbing a handful of John’s hair, he tugs his head gently up. Looks him in the eyes and says, “I want you to fuck me like you mean it.”

John groans and hoists Dirk up by his thighs, manhandling his legs to hook over his shoulders. A familiar position and one he’s happy to be in but oh, _shit_ —thank god he’s flexible. John leans down, bends him in half, and goes for gold.

There’s no way in hell he’s gonna last.

Maybe tomorrow he’ll be physically and mentally sore. Maybe tomorrow he’ll regret this whole fucking night. But right now? John makes good on his request. He fucks him like he means it. Hard and fast and with purpose. He doesn’t hold back.

And Dirk doesn’t either.

He’s way too out of his head to articulate any kind of meaningful sentiment. Every time John angles himself just right and slams into that sweet spot he’d found with his fingers, Dirk gets a little closer to forgetting his name. The thoughts are fucked right out his head, so all he can do is moan and curse under his breath, chanting John’s name like a prayer.

He’s never been so turned on in all his life. He’s never wanted so desperately to come on a client’s cock before. It’s starting to hurt with how heavy and full he feels, every time his dick rubs against his stomach, in time with John’s rough thrusts, it feels like a hair’s breadth away from agony.

Nothing is stopping him from reaching between his legs. Nothing but the fact he doesn’t want this to be over and a small part of him that’s still embarrassed he’s hard at all.

But, mostly, he just wishes that John would be the one to touch him.

In his desperation, as John drives into him over and over, sending him hurdling closer and closer to the finish line, but never across it, Dirk breaks.

“Touch me,” he begs. “Please. Touch me, John. _Please_.”

He’s not supposed to be making requests. He’s not supposed to want his clients to tenderly fuck him. He’s not supposed to be so impatient to get off that he begs them for it.

John gropes at his dick and it’s sloppy and messy and the best fucking thing Dirk’s ever experienced in his life. All it takes it three quick pulls of his wrist right at his head and—

“Oh, fuck, _fuck_.”

Dirk arches off the bed, nearly causing John to slip out of him. He comes in hot, thick spurts over John’s hand, all over his belly and chest. John strokes him through it, pausing the frantic thrusts of his hips to wring out every last drop from Dirk until he’s too far gone. Sensitive and overstimulated.

It feels like forever. It feels like no time at all.

But it’s somewhere in his groggy, blissful post-orgasm haze that Dirk realizes _why_ John had stopped moving. John collapses on his chest, and he either forgets about the mess or doesn’t care about it at all. He’s breathing heavy, and Dirk feels every rise and fall like a stack of weights. He moves his hips, slipping out of Dirk with a wince.

“That was…” John trails off, laughing lightly to himself. He lifts himself, peeling their dirty, sweaty bodies from one another, and gazes down at Dirk with a smile so fond, it makes his heart ache. “That was really good.”

_Good._

Dirk feels like he’s going to be sick.

“Yeah,” he says weakly.

Truth is, it wasn’t just _good_. It was great—some real Tony the fuckin’ Tiger shit. That crash he’d knew was going to happen? Yeah. He didn’t think it’d be this soon. He’d figured he would at least make it home before he had an absolute fucking breakdown. But John’s smiling at him all goofy and happy like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else in the world, which is a ridiculous notion that Dirk doesn’t need to entertain for his sanity.

But, oh. John has _ruined_ him.

“Hey,” he says softly, cradling Dirk’s cheek in his hand. His thumb moves to his bottom lip, brushing over it lightly and Dirk shudders for it. “I know I can’t kiss you here, and you’ve said nowhere above the neck. Which, well…I sort of already did that. Sorry. You didn’t stop me though! And you might—oh, jeez, yeah. You have a few bruises—”

“Get on with it,” Dirk says, feeling his face go hot. He doesn’t need a reminder. The sensation of John’s phantom bites still lingers. “But if you’re asking to kiss me, the answer is no.”

For a millisecond, John looks disappointment, eyes going soft and sad. He shakes his head. “No, not your mouth.”

Dirk swallows. “Okay then. Where?”

“Just, maybe…” John presses his mouth into a thin line, fingertips ghosting along Dirk’s hairline. “Here?”

That.

That feels safe—which is exactly why he needs to say no.

“Go ahead.”

John kisses him, right where his hair meets his forehead, right where it’s sweaty and damp with overexertion. Dirk sucks in a sharp breath, guilt settling in the pit of his stomach like a river stone. He shouldn’t want this so bad. It feels selfish.

He gets in two more before Dirk pushes him away. “Okay, okay. God, anyone ever tell you that you’re a giant fuckin’ sap?”

John rolls over off of him, beaming like he’s proud himself. Like he sees right through Dirk’s cracked armor and can tell just how much he enjoys the attention. He’s still naked and Dirk politely averts his eyes while John deals with the condom situation. Usually, he’s ten steps out the door by the time that becomes an issue.

When he looks back over, John’s still smiling.

“What?”

“I like your hair like this,” he says, reaching out to run his fingers through it. Dirk dodges him at first, batting at his hand, but ultimately doesn’t put up a fight. John’s fingers work their way through his coarse curls, massaging at his scalp until he sighs, content.

Dirk always hated his curls and, for some reason, decides to share that with the man who just paid him for sex.

“Why?” John asks, brushing a few errant strands back from Dirk’s face. “They’re pretty.”

Dirk snorts.

“What? They are!” His voice gets softer as he strokes the back of his knuckles along Dirk’s cheek. “You’re pretty.”

Dirk squirms with the quiet confession, face flushing. “You don’t have to flatter me.” He swallows down the unease of the situation. “You got what you wanted.”

“No,” John says thoughtfully. “Actually, I think you still owe me!”

Looking over, so that he’s _sure_ John can get the full effect of his skepticism, Dirk raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Is that right?”

Instead of answering directly, John twists so that he can rummage through the nightstand drawer. He comes back with a hotel legal pad and pen, plopping it on the space between them. “You owe me a Dirk Strider original!”

“You’re joking.”

“Do you think I’m being funny?”

“No. You’re never being funny,” Dirk says, quirking his mouth at the corner to let John know he’s teasing. He rolls his eyes with faux exasperation and turns to lay on his stomach. “Okay, give it here.”

John scoots the paper and pen toward him and moves to mirror Dirk’s position so that they’re both on their bellies, supported by their elbows, half under the hotel sheets. Might as well be kicking their feet and gossiping about boys. It’s a real sight. A regular slumber party.

“Alright,” Dirk sighs. “You got requests?”

“Try drawing me again but more accurate.”

“That was accurate.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You sort of do.” Dirk thinks back to that night, to John sleeping soundly in an empty bed. The snores hadn’t been quite as dramatic as he’d depicted but it was cute. He was cute. “But fine. I won’t bruise your ego.”

John knocks his shoulder and smiles, watching patiently as Dirk scribbles on the legal pad with the shitty hotel pen. He draws another caricature of John, this time puffing up his chest and looking proud. On the lapel of his suit, he adds a giant blue ribbon that proclaims him as the _#1 Ass Eating Champ._

Next to him, John barks out a laugh. “I love it.”

“Hold on.” Dirk adds himself in the corner again, the same as last time. A stoic thumbs up.

“Just one?”

He rolls his eyes and adds a second. “Christ. There ya go, two thumbs up. Siskel and Ebert approved.” Dirk signs his name with a flourish and rips it from a pad. “Here.”

John takes it, holding it in his hands delicately, staring down like it’s a lost fuckin’ Di Vinci piece. He carefully places it on the nightstand and Dirk’s mind can’t help but idly wander. Did John keep his last shitty doodle? He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“I can draw you know,” he confesses with a shrug. “Like more than shitty pen scratches.”

“I don’t think they’re shitty,” John says sincerely. “Do you want to see mine?”

Dirk shrugs again, but John takes the pen from him and starts sketching away. It’s…

Holy shit. It’s horrible. Every stroke against the paper somehow makes it look _worse_. Dirk thinks it’s supposed to be him. Or…maybe an eagle on steroids. Or some eldritch horror. Is that an arm or a tentacle? What the fuck.

John rips it out and hands it to him and Dirk stares. And he stares. And he stares.

And then he burst out laughing, harder than he’s allowed himself to laugh in a long time. So hard he's afraid he may have pinched a nerve because oh, god, his side hurts. He barely registers the raspy chuckle next to him. Dirk looks over to see John wiping under his glasses, catching a tear with his thumb.

“Pretty bad, huh?”

“No, dude.” Dirk looks at it again and nearly blows a raspberry trying to contain himself. “Hang this in the fuckin’ Louvre.”

John makes a fruitless attempt to snatch the drawing back, but Dirk holds it just out of reach. No way. No way in hell is gonna let this go. He could probably sell it to some crazed fan on eBay for some serious cash but he’s not gonna do that either. No. This is going straight to his keepsake box because holy shit, it’s priceless.

They end up rolling around on the bed, John trying to grapple the drawing back from him, Dirk trying to keep it just an arm’s length away. He successfully rolls them over, getting John flat on his back, straddling his hips triumphantly. To be an ass, he dangles the paper over his head.

“Fine, fine,” John relents. He runs his hands up Dirk’s naked thighs, settling warm palms against the sharp jut of his hips. “You win.”

All at once, in a grand splendor of fucked-up recognition, Dirk realizes that he’s naked and smiling and _flirting_ with a client. And not just any client? But John Crocker—a literal celebrity. Untouchable and unattainable. John, who is paying him for a good time but will forget him the moment he walks out of the door.

He hasn’t won anything.

Time to deflect. Again.

Dirk drops his gaze to John’s stomach. “You need a shower.”

“Hmm?” John looks down, brushing a hand over his stomach, grimacing when his fingers roam over the dried mess in his happy trail. “Gross. You’re right.”

“Usually am,” Dirk snorts, swinging his leg over John’s waist, unsaddling himself. He swallows down the anxiety, the trepidation, for what he has to do. “Go.”

“You want to join me?” John asks, wiggling his eyebrows. “I know you want to!”

Fuck. He does. The memories of that shower almost lingered longer than the memories of John, and that’s only a slight exaggeration. What he wouldn’t give to soak under a warm spray until he prunes with strong hands stroking up his sides, down his back. To have John turn him around so he has to brace himself on the slippery tile while he pushes back in and fucks him again.

Dirk pulls the sheet over his lap, a false attempt at modesty, and covers the way his traitorous dick twitches. “Nah, go ahead.”

John doesn’t push him, though he looks a bit…disappointed? Whatever. Honestly, Dirk knows he probably owes him for more than one round, but he needs to leave. And the longer he stays here, the harder that’ll be to do. Dread already pools in his belly, guilt tugging at his heartstrings. He watches John pick up his strewn clothes to drape over his arm, stopping at the bathroom door to give him one more silent, inquisitive look.

Dirk shakes his head lightly and then.

Then John’s gone and he’s alone in the big, empty hotel suite listening to the pipes cut on and water spray against porcelain. He needs to get up.

He needs to leave.

Dirk lays there, spread across the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.

He needs to leave.

Dirk rolls over, staring at the sliver of city lights peeking out from the crack in the curtains.

He needs to leave.

Dirk sighs and sits up and tries not to think about how much he wants to slip into the bathroom. He knows John has left the door unlocked. He knows he wouldn’t protest if he slipped in. God, he wants a hot shower. The one in his apartment isn’t going to be the same; it’s gonna feel like he’s shamefully washing off this night. Every place that John’s touched him will spiral down a rusty drain and he’ll never be able to get it back. But, maybe that’s for the best.

_He needs to leave. Now._

Slowly, he redresses himself, finding the bits and pieces of his outfit thrown across the room where John had eagerly ripped them off to get him fully bare. He jumps into his skinny jeans, throws his shirt on over his head, finds his glasses half-under the bed, one sock is on the dresser, the other is draped over the television. How the hell did that even happen? He puts them on and grabs his shoes—

“Leaving so soon?”

Dirk freezes for a millisecond, looking up from where he’s sitting on the bed, lacing up his boot. He hadn’t even registered the shower shutting off. John stands in the doorway, shirt unbuttoned and tie loose around his neck, idly drying his hands on a rag. When he’s done, he tosses it to the side.

“Yeah,” Dirk grunts, resuming his task but a tad bit quicker. “Gotta go.”

“Are you sure?” He sounds anxious, a slight tremor in his voice. “You can hang out a bit. It’s late but I think we can find a good twenty-four joint that’ll deliver.”

Dirk’s stomach rumbles. Did he eat today? Yesterday?

“I’m not hungry,” he lies.

“Alright! That’s okay. We can see what’s on TV,” John suggests. He stops right in front of Dirk, kicking playfully at the inside of his foot. “I won’t make you watch anything I’m in. Promise.”

God. He’s fucking trying to kill him, isn’t he? The universe is testing him to a humiliatingly unfair degree. Having John act like…this. Like they’re…

Like this isn’t what it _is_.

There’s a hollowness in his chest and Dirk’s fingers shake as he finishes up his laces. There. Now he can go. He shouldn’t have spent so much time dawdling and moping around like a child. He should have snuck out while John showered like he’d planned to.

Too late now. John’s in front of him, loosely dressed and smiling. He places a hand on Dirk’s cheek and guides his head to tilt up. Dirk knows what he’s thinking, what he’s remembering. He knows because he’s remembering it too.

The two of them, pressed together, holding onto each other and absorbing the loneliness.

John takes the tie from around his neck and loops it around Dirk’s lightly. He uses it to pull him in but it feels more like a noose to hang himself.

“Stay?”

“I can’t,” Dirk grits out. Anything more than a harsh whisper holds the risk of shaking, giving him away.

“Can’t?” John pauses. “Or won’t?”

That’s the question, isn’t it?

“Can’t,” he confesses because god, he wants to, but he— “I can’t.”

John smiles. There’s no light behind it. No humor. He lets the tie fall from his slack grip and Dirk stands to run like a coward.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, brushing past John, headed for the door. “Consider your debt paid. You proved yourself, defended your honor, whatever you were going for.”

“I’ll see you around?”

No, Dirk wants to say. Fuck no. He’s not going to keep torturing himself.

“Maybe.”

He makes it to the door, one hand on the handle before John speaks again, stopping him in his tracks.

“One day,” he says and the disappointment in his voice is palpable, even when Dirk can’t see his face. “One day, I’ll figure out the price tag that’ll make you want to stay.”

The weight of that crushes him. Dirk leaves without another word.

Because. Well.

That’s exactly what he’s afraid of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! this art is done by the amazing @quandrantstuck on instagram and @rieunn on here! i'm head over heels for it. :') THANK YOU SO MUCH! <3


	7. Chapter 7

Dirk’s at the front door, fishing his keys from his pocket, when he realizes that John’s tie is still looped around his neck. Shit. He’d left in such a rush; he hadn't given it any thought. Those last moments with John feel like a poorly-recollected dream in the back of his mind and that’s where they need to stay.

He sighs, slipping the tie off and holding it loosely between his fingers. It’s blue silk, soft, and probably very expensive. That suspicion is only confirmed when Dirk flips it to find an embroidered logo of some brand he’s doesn’t recognize.

Idly, he wonders if John will notice it missing.

Probably not. Dude probably has a hundred more just like it and, if his fashion history is anything to go by, all in a spectacular array of heinous patterns. It probably says something that Dirk’s relieved he’s managed to nab the plain jane, navy blue one. Not that he intends on keeping it. But he does ball it up in his fist, bringing it to his nose and inhaling John’s lingering scent like a certified fuckin’ creeper.

Sighing, Dirk shoves the tie deep into his back pocket. He tells himself he’ll throw it away or something. Maybe add it to his wardrobe. It’ll go great with his pre-existing closet full of black. Whatever. He knows he’s just going to hand it off to Roxy for her to return.

It might be a little selfish but, he wants to keep it.

He opens the front door quietly. Jake’s a heavy sleeper, but Dirk’s not an ass. It’s ass-o’clock in the morning and Jake’s probably sawing logs, sprawled out on the futon, blissfully unaware that he’s been alone all this time.

But the lights are on and Jake’s not there.

“Rox?” Dirk asks, frowning at her. He shuts the door behind him with a click, pressing himself against it. She looks like she’s been waiting for him, tucked in her pajamas and nursing a mug of something steaming. “Where’s Jake?”

“I told him he could crash in my room for the night,” she tells him, a lecherous smile curling on her lips. “I wanna know the deets. C’mere!”

“Ain’t nothing to say.” Dirk shucks off his jacket, tossing it over the single chair that acts as their coatrack. In his pants pocket, both the tie and folded-up drawing burn a hole there. “Sorry to disappoint.” 

Roxy’s smile vanishes and she sits the mug on the coffee table. “C’mere.”

It’s not a request.

Dirk’s feet feel like heavy lead, each step toward the futon harder and harder to take. The moment he’s within Roxy’s orbit, she reaches out and tugs at his wrist, pulling him down to collapse next to her. Her face is wrought with pity and it’s too painful for him to look at. He turns his head instead.

“Hey there,” she coos, lightly dragging her fingertips up and down his arm. The touch calms him, and she knows it. “What’s goin’ on?”

Just like that, all Dirk’s thoughts and feelings coagulate and harden in the back of his throat. It’s difficult to swallow, to breathe, to think, much less articulate what he’s feeling. He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. There are a million things he wants to say, but he doesn’t have the words for any of them. There’s a pressure building inside him, pressing at him from all angles. It feels like the first crack in the cement before the dam breaks.

Roxy switches to rubbing the flat of her palm up his bicep, around the curve of his shoulder to his back, keeping a steady up-and-down rhythm along his spine. “What happened?”

Wordlessly, Dirk tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck. Her hand stills. The table lamp isn’t the brightest, but he knows she can see the string of bruises along the column of his throat. He’s checked himself out in the lobby while waiting for the cab. He knows what the fuck he looks like—purple and red marks in the shape of John Crocker’s mouth. 

“Holy shit,” Roxy breathes out. “Dirk. You let him do that, right?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, trying to stifle the murder in her voice. “Yeah, I told him he could.”

“Dirk…”

“I know.” His voice catches, vision blurring. “Fuck, Rox, I know.”

“Ah, shit,” she says, huffing out a humorless laugh and knocking her head against his shoulder. She curls her fingers into the back of his shirt, nails scraping along his back. “This is my fault.”

Dirk blinks. “What? No. Crocker didn’t do—he didn’t pressure me into agreein’ to anything I wasn’t cool with. That’s not it. I wanted him to.”

“Dirk, you big dummy.” She sighs against his arm, shaking her head. “I know that. Don’t you see? That’s the problem. If I had realized that you—”

“That I what?” Dirk asks before she can finish, if only to buy himself some more time. Dread coils and tightens in the pit of his stomach.

Whatever Roxy was going to say, whatever she’d realized, she keeps it to herself. “Oh, Dirk,” she says instead, softly, guiding him closer. Everything about her tone screams one defining truth.

She knows.

“I’m so fucked up,” Dirk admits in a cracked whisper. “Holy shit, Rox. I’m fucked up.”

“No, no, no. You aren’t fucked up. You’re just human, hear me? Everyone needs a little attention sometimes. You aren’t messed up for enjoyin’ it.”

He more-than-enjoyed it…but he can’t tell her that. No, he plans to hold onto every last strand of plausible deniability. That doesn’t negate the fact that she probably already knows all this because, as established many times, she knows goddamn everything about him. Dirk knows he reeks of desperation and John’s cologne.

“Guess not,” he snorts, running his hands up his face to press the heel of his palms hard against his eye sockets. “Is it messed up that I want more?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. John’s a catch and he’s _real_ good when he wants to be,” Roxy says, “I’m willing to bet he’ll be down for round two or three.”

That’s not what he meant when he said he wanted more, but he nods anyway, sighing. “Probably not a good idea. I think I got my fill.”

“Oh?” She asks, perking up. “Got your _fill_ , did ya? Tell me all about it.”

She’s trying to change the subject. Lighten the mood.

“Fine, but can we lay down? I feel like I’ve been hit by a goddamn train.”

Roxy let’s out a high-pitched, squeal of a laugh and kicks her feet out, clapping her hands gleefully. Okay. He hadn’t meant that to be as suggestive as it was but, seeing Rox bounce back on the futon, wiggling under the covers like she’s locked and loaded for a primo Girl’s Night makes his smile feel less forced. He keeps his clothes on—one, because he hasn’t showered; two, because the tie and doodle are still in his back pocket—and follows her lead.

They used to do this a lot, back when they were barely teenagers and he’d sneak over to her place to escape his own. She didn’t have it much better, but at least her mom had always been too piss-drunk to notice he was there. Or to answer the door when his dad came looking for him.

And, just like when they were kids, she wraps her arms him and pulls him into a comforting embrace. Dirk hooks his chin over her shoulder, staring at the crack of chipped paint on the wall, sighing contently while she runs her fingers through his hair to scratch at his scalp.

“Soooo,” she says, voice low and conspiring. “You got the full John Crocker experience?”

Dirk huffs out an exasperated laugh. “Something like that.”

Roxy gives him a displeased whine, unsatisfied with his answer, and he relents. Well. He gives her the spark-notes version and that seems to placate her just fine. He tells her how John turned him into a four-course meal but leaves out how he’d tried to kiss him after. He tells her how John fucked the words out of his head but leaves out how he’d begged him to stay. Compromising, Dirk tells himself. He’s compromising.

“Wow,” Roxy says, pulling back and dislodging Dirk’s head from where it comfortably rests on her shoulder so that she can look at him, blinking. “I’m almost sorta jealous!”

Dirk hums because he can’t argue. “It was a good time,” he concludes with a shrug. “It’ll be your turn next.”

“Nah, we don’t really do all that anymore.”

He knows, for a fact, that she was with John just a week or so before he was. He knows, for a fact, that John had mentioned him mid-handy just days ago. Sorta wishes he didn’t, but he does. The knowledge is there, forever lodged into his memory.

“Didn’t you…?” Dirk jerks off an invisible dick.

“Yeah! I mean, if the guy can get it up, I’ll take care of it. I’m not a monster, Dirk. But he hasn’t scored a home run with this,” Roxy pauses to gesture to her body like she’s Vanna White, “in ages. Mostly we just…ya know, cuddle and stuff.”

Dirk swallows. “His loss.”

She shrugs. “Like I said, I like John! I think he’s super-fun to be around, whether or not he’s pile-driving me into a mattress. Because I also like it when he pays me to beat his ass in Mario Kart just as much. Total boyfriend material!”

Now, absurdly, he’s the jealous one. He knows that Roxy isn’t getting paid the same exorbitant rate that he is but getting a little cash to play some video games with John sounds like the fuckin’ dream. A little voice in the back of his head reminds him that John had just offered dinner and bad television as part of his package deal and he’d turned it down. He tells that voice to shut up. It’s not John and Roxy’s relationship that he’s jealous of—it’s her ability to have it.

“Yeah,” he says, distracted. “You know, Rox. You claimed I swindled him, but here you are collecting payment for platonic hang-out sessions. I’m impressed.”

Roxy rolls her eyes, blowing out a disbelieving raspberry. “I’d hang with him for free! That’s kinda John’s whole problem though. He ain’t having it. The guy’s only comfortable when there’s money involved. Everything has to be a transaction. As much as I like the guy, it’s sorta a big, giant buzzkill.”

Dirk goes quiet and lets that sink in. The horrifying familiarity of it all.

“But, well,” Roxy continues, softer, “I guess I can’t blame him. It must be hard not to have someone to be vulnerable with sometimes, ya know? I know _you_ ain’t the poster child for vulnerability yourself or anything, but at least we got each other.” She gives him a little squeeze, leaning in to peck his cheek. “It’s gotta be lonely.”

Lonely, Dirk thinks. That’s one word for it. Fuck. Maybe he shouldn’t have left; maybe he shoulda indulged in John’s real request. It should have been Rox with him tonight, someone that could have quelled that immeasurable feeling of isolation instead of adding to it just because they’re too damaged to be anything other than selfish.

“Yeah,” he says, “I can imagine.”

He can, but he doesn’t have to. That feeling lives free inside him. The sensation of being surrounded by so many people who claim to love you while being unable to reach out and feel a sense a tangibility with their claims. Even now, knowing Roxy loves him isn't enough, it’s still so hard for Dirk not to feel alone. When he’s with Jake, that feeling amplified tenfold, the emotional rift between them is palpable at this stage in their relationship.

And whatever he feels with John…it’s not real. It’s a projection of own brokenness onto a soul that’s similarly fractured. They come from different worlds, different backgrounds. They aren’t two sides of the same coin. They aren’t even the same fucking coin, to begin with. John’s a newly minted, fuckin’ limited edition collector’s coin. He’s dirty penny stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe with some chewed up spearmint.

Point is. John gets a little dirty, someone is still gonna want him.

And it’ll be truly tragic if it gets out that someone is him.

* * *

“Morning.” Jake comes up from behind him in the bathroom, voice groggy from sleep, shouldering next to Dirk to grab his toothbrush. “Sorry, Roxy told me to take her bed last night and—” He stops, halfway through dabbing a glob of toothpaste on the bristles. “Christ, Dirk. Your neck.”

Dirk slowly resumes brushing his teeth, pointedly looking anywhere but Jake or his reflection. He’d already got a good, hard gander at it this morning before his shower. His neck is littered with little purple bruises, all up the column of his throat, descending down his collarbone and chest.

Dirk spits and rinses, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Long night,” he offers, in lieu of explanation. Then he remembers the look of fury in Roxy’s eyes at the implication and even though Jake’s shown no indication of being concerned with it outside of surprise, Dirk decides to add, “Things got a little carried away, it’s fine. All negotiated.”

“Ah,” he says, “I figured as much.”

Dirk snorts a laugh, rinsing off his toothbrush, trying to feign indifference. “Thanks.”

“Well, no offense but I think you can hold your own here. It’s just hard for me to imagine anyone getting the upper hand on you! That’s all.”

That almost makes Dirk want to laugh, it’s so fucking textbook Jake. The alternative is crying, and God knows he can’t handle a— _“Gee-fuckin’-Willikers, Dirk, you’re leaking from your eyes!”_

He knows his boyfriend well enough to know when he’s being factitious on purpose as a form of avoidance, or if it’s just plain blissful ignorance. The tear thing, yeah, if that’d been a thing that happened, that would be a relatively harmless, but obvious, way to negate responsibility. But the former comment? That stings because Dirk realizes that Jake’s being sincere. That he doesn’t see what’s wrong with his statement because he’s always had a very rudimentary understanding of emotional vulnerability. That he means it at a compliment, not derogatory. That he just means he sees Dirk as invincible.

And he’s not invincible, by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s too tired to explain that to Jake right now.

“Not to mention,” Jake continues, “I don’t think John Crocker is that type of fella!”

Dirk’s blood runs cold, body going rigid. He resumes drying off his hands, trying to hand the way they shake. “You knew who I was with?”

“Oh.” Jake blinks. “Was it supposed to be a secret? I may have wheedled it out of Roxy, but—”

“There’s a confidentiality clause.”

“Is there?”

“There’s a _nonverbal_ confidentiality clause,” he clarifies. “It’s more like a dealing of ethical boundaries. There’s no physical waiver. I’ve been dissuaded against that, but I guess when I’m dealing with certified fuckin’ celebrities it wouldn’t help to have one. Got to save my own ass, you know? I can’t be the harlot that slept with John Crocker for the rest of my life. That shit isn't good for my image.”

At some point in Dirk’s rambling explanation, Jake finished brushing his teeth. He stands now, leaning against the sink, with his arms crossed and a bemused smile on his face. “So defensive,” he chides, a playful quirk to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not.”

“You always get wordy when someone’s raised your hackles,” Jake laughs. “Sorry! If it’s any consolation, it doesn’t bother me! Besides, it looks like you’ve had a grand ole time.”

That’s not a consolation at all. Dirk self-consciously lifts a hand to his neck, lightly tracing over the tender bruises. He’s always been so careful to hide the evidence of what he does from Jake, for the fear of making him uncomfortable too strong to allow himself any licentious indulgences—even if, before John, he rarely had them. Because turns out, Jake never cared at all.

“You’re not jealous?” Dirk asks before he can stop himself.

“Of course, I’m not!” Jake assures him, pushing off the sink and clamping a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all business, isn’t it? Are you jealous of my subscribers?”

“No,” Dirk lies, “I guess not.”

“See!” Jake cups his face, rubbing his thumb along the sharp ridge of his cheekbone. It feels strangely impersonal. Compulsory, like he’s only doing it because he thinks it’s what he’s supposed to do. “I don’t know what’s brought all this on, but I promise, nothing about your job makes me think less of you.”

There he goes again, missing the fuckin’ point.

“I know that.”

“Well then, what’s the worry?”

Dirk looks at his boyfriend, really looks at him. There’s nothing malicious behind Jake’s green eyes. Nothing hateful in his tone. Just another misunderstanding. Once again, it becomes painfully obvious that they’re reading from two separate books. And, once again, Dirk decides not to address the issue because the thought of being truly alone is too much to consider.

“Nothing,” Dirk sighs and, because he’s a slave to his own masochistic fantasies, asks, “What if I said he kissed me?”

Jake blinks. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, I’ll be honest. Dirk, I support you. I’m not in the dark about what happens on your midnight rendezvouses. If a little kissing happens, well, that’s just part of it! Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I didn’t kiss anyone,” Dirk blurts out just to shut him up. Jake doesn’t even realize that every word out of his mouth is making this worse. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

There’s a stretch of silence where Dirk thinks that maybe he’s finally going to get a reaction. Anger. Jealousy. Something. How fucked up is it that he craves it? But Jake only smiles again, bright as ever. It hurts.

“I don’t think anyone would blame you for wanting to kiss John Crocker!”

Oh, goddamnit. This is fucking pointless.

“I’m done with this conversation,” Dirk groans, pushing past him, out of the bathroom. Jake follows, quick on his heels.

“No need to be embarrassed! People do say I look like him, after all.”

Dirk scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

“It’s true!”

He stops, turning to look at Jake with a raised brow. They’ve got a few similarities sure. Dark hair, dark skin, glasses, and teeth that are a little too big for their mouth. But Jake’s jaw is sharp and square where John’s is soft and rounded. John has the muscle that comes with a good diet and regular exercise where Jake’s feels more deliberate. John’s got a smattering of dark freckles on the bridge of his nose. Jake’s got more of an arch in the cupid’s bow of his lips.

“Yeah,” Dirk says drily. “You could be his porno stunt-double.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Dirk almost tells him that he should but thinks better of it. “Fine.”

“If you want to kiss Crocker—”

“Stop.” Heat rises to his cheeks and he fights the urge to sink into the collar of his shirt to hide the flush. “I’m done with this conversation.”

“Okay, okay. No more teasing, roger that.” Jake holds up his hands in surrender, laughing. Each chuckle is a separate stab to Dirk’s heart. It makes him ache for something he no longer has. Nostalgic for a time when that laughter was accompanied by a kiss.

Dirk flops down on the futon, half-expecting Jake to follow, half-expecting nothing at all. He gets the latter. “You ready for this weekend? I think Rox ordered about ten different bathing suits if you were wondering why the trash was stuffed full of Amazon packages.”

Jake’s smile falters, so quick that Dirk almost doesn’t catch it. “Yeah! Of course.”

That’s troublesome. Dirk opts not to think about it. “Nice.”

Jake makes some flimsy excuse to hang out in the bedroom, and even though Dirk knows he’s more than welcome in that space, he chooses to stay back, lazing in the living room instead. He doesn’t want to smother, and he’s self-aware enough to know that his clinginess has been the origin point of several past issues between them. So, he gives Jake his space.

He’d mistakenly thought that’d help things. He was wrong, but now it’s the norm and he’s not keen on deviating from it. No sense in making shit worse.

Dirk laughs at his own goddamn misery and no one is around to hear it.

* * *

He’s been staring at Crocker’s tie for a good fifteen minutes, rubbing the soft material between his thumb and forefinger. An idea’s been formulating in the back of his mind, a bad one, but an idea, nonetheless.

Dirk pulls out his phone, opens up his Venmo app, and pays the famous comedian, John Crocker, a total of five dollars. He changes the setting to private and, in the note section, he types out: I have your tie.

He pockets his phone and tries to forget that he sent anything.

* * *

An hour later, John Crocker sends him one hundred dollars with an attached note of: _**is this a ransom?**_

Dirk’s heart flutters and he hides his phone against his chest like he’s just witnessed the filthiest porn known to man. 

He sends him the hundred dollars back with a clarification: _**No. Typically the one holding the ransom doesn’t give money to the person they’re exploiting.**_

Almost immediately, his phone pings again. Two hundred dollars. Christ. This is high-stakes flirting. The message reads: _**an extra hundred for the lesson in ransom etiquette. :B**_

Okay. Dirk laughs at that. What an absolute fucking dork. He’s still not keeping the money though.

He sends it back, telling him as much and John sends back double with a note that looks like a random key-smash of numbers until Dirk sees the “ _text me_ ”.

Oh. Huh.

A phone number.

It’s a bad idea. It’s a spectacularly bad idea. It’s breaking a rule. It’s breaking several rules, probably, if he were to examine the situation under a microscope. Which, he should be doing. Acting impulsively has never gotten him anything but trouble. And that’s all this is. Trouble.

He takes a deep breath, saves John's number, and opens up a new message anyway.

Crocker   
  
It's Dirk.   
  
**Delivered**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 3:30 AM. please excuse any typos! 
> 
> for those of you who don't know, i'm hosting a dirkjohn big bang. come the end of october, there should be a lot of new fics and art coming out! i'm personally writing four pieces and i'm really excited to share them with you all! i'm going to try to keep deacon blues updated regularly though. these two live in my head rent free...though i should probably be charging for emotional damages.
> 
> also, god, i swear i don't hate jake. he means well, i swear. these two just don't know how to communicate.
> 
> also, also! this fic now has a playlist! feel free to suggest songs for it! :D i’m sorry i can’t make the link all pretty. 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/63nYf324y5i0sAC6dJgETL?si=vXJeGesQR5G82qgTZ3PKFw


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOR THIS CHAPTER TO READ CORRECTLY, YOU MUST HAVE CREATOR WORK SKINS ENABLED! PLEASE! :D IT LOOKS REALLY COOL, I PROMISE!

Crocker  
  
So, how well do you really know Dave Lalonde?  
pretty well, unfortunately. why? ugh don’t tell me you’re a fan.  
Careful. I smell jealousy.  
oh god, you are!  
His works are masterpieces for the modern age. They're ripe with economical reflection on today's society. Don't even get me started on the social commentary. The man is a genius.  
it's garbage nonsense!  
It's ironic.  
bye.  
Later.  
haha. ok, i really should go. i have a photoshoot and interview here in a couple of hours.  
Right. Celebrity stuff.  
bluh. yeah, pretty boring.  
what about you?  
Prostitute stuff.  
...  
bye, dirk.  
That was a joke.  
A funny one, by the way.  
I know you can’t tell the difference.  
i'm laughing soooooooo hard.  
For the record, I'm going to be driving up to the coast for the weekend.  
Might not have my phone on me for a little bit.  
oh yeah?  
Yeah. I'm hittin' up the beach with some friends.  
well, in that case! i think i deserve some untasteful speedo pics.  
I'm a boardshorts kind of guy.  
But seeing how you're basically sponsoring this trip.  
Sure. I can do that.  
haha, nice.  
ok. i’ll talk to you later!  
Later.

Dirk swipes out of the message and deletes the entire conversation.

It’s not that he’s trying to hide anything because he’s not. They’ve been texting on and off for a couple of days and Dirk’s learned the hard way that if he doesn’t delete it, he’ll obsessively read the log, over and over. Pick it apart. Question the tone. Think of things he should have said. Notice things he shouldn’t have. This is for his sanity, nothing else.

But he’s already halfway through his fifth swimsuit photo fantasy when Roxy walks in. Her shoulders are slumped, her head bowed, the picture of pitiful. She’s also still in her loungewear. She’d gone to change. She’d gone to _pack_. But here she stands, sans duffle bag.

Dirk’s stomach twists itself into a knot.

Jake scuttles in behind her, looking guiltier than the dog who ate the homework.

Oh, fucking great.

“Dirk,” Jake starts. He rubs at the back of his neck, eyes downcast, tripping over his words like his tongue’s too big for his mouth.

“He’s bailing on us,” Roxy says for him.

In retrospect, Dirk should have seen this coming. Deep down, he did. He’d been picking up on the subtle clues all week but stubbornly refused to acknowledge them. That’s why Jake had dodged the conversation about the trip when it’d been brought up. That’s why Jake had yet to dig his swimsuit out of the hall closet. That’s why Jake has been extra avoidant in the last twenty-four hours.

It all makes sense.

Silently, Dirk stands and walks straight past them toward the hallway, catching Jake by the elbow and dragging him along. He has better sense than to fight it.

“Rox, pardon us,” Dirk says once they’re beyond the threshold of the bedroom and shuts the door. He rounds on Jake, set on keeping his cool even though just looking at him feels like a hot iron between his ribs. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

“You’re angry.”

Dirk almost laughs. Almost. “Excellent observation, Jake. Yes. I’m angry.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says, cutting off whatever insincere, bologna apology that’s about to be thrown his way. “You’re not sorry. Moving on. What’s your excuse?”

Jake is silent, chewing his lip and wringing his hands.

“Nothing,” Dirk breathes out, exasperated. “Okay, great. You’ve had all week to tell me. I’m assuming this wasn’t something you decided today.”

The guilty look on Jake’s face says it all.

Dirk scoffs, more disappointed than anything. “Well, what is it? What’s the excuse?”

“There’s no excuse—Dirk, stop looking at me like that. You’re being unfair.”

“I’m being unfair?” He can help the rise in his tone, the slight uptick of his voice. “Did you see the look on Roxy’s face?”

There. That gets a reaction. Jake’s thick brows furrow and he shakes his head. “Don’t bring Roxy into this.”

“Do you even care—”

“Do _you_ even care?” Jake shouts, chest heaving, and nostrils flared. “Christ on a fucking cracker, Dirk. This is your problem!”

Dirk recoils as if slapped. Though, in reality, a slap would have been kinder. To be accused of not caring when caring is all he’s ever done. He cares. He cares too fucking much. It’s why he’s still standing there.

“My problem?” Dirk’s eyebrow raises in a dubious arch, arms crossing at his chest. “Please, enlighten me.”

Jake shifts uncomfortably, mirroring Dirk’s posture. Defensive. Behind his glasses, his eyes dart back and forth, like he’s searching for the right words to say in the dirty, stained carpet. “You—you make all these decisions for me and expect me to go along with them!”

“Bullshit. I specifically asked you where you wanted to go. You said the beach. Beach it is. If you didn’t want to go anywhere, all you had to do was say. You could have told me you wanted to have a weekend at home.”

“Really?” Jake asks, sounding tired. Defeated. “You would have accepted that?”

Dirk swallows down the truth. No. He wouldn’t have. Guilt twists and gnaws at his gut and he moves his arms lower, hugging himself around the middle, curling in on himself. He feels like he’s going to be sick. Jake’s right, they both know it.

This is his problem.

“I was doing this for us,” Dirk says. A quiet confession, barely audible.

“Forgive me but, I think you might’ve just been doing this for you.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. It’s true, in a sense. He wanted this weekend away to prove to himself, and Jake, that their relationship still had meaning. To convince himself that there was still something there. He’d pummeled over all the signs that Jake wasn’t into it because he thought it was best for them both.

“Is there any reason you don’t want to go?”

Jake shakes his head. Weird how a simple gesture can feel so insincere. “I’m just not feeling up to.”

Dirk wants to prod more, wants to pry every single one of Jake’s thoughts from his head so he can lay them out and try to make sense of them. But he’s exhausted. And, on some level, he’s pretty sure they both know this argument wasn’t just about bailing on a beach trip. That it’s something deeper.

That Jake feels suffocated by Dirk’s presence, and Dirk can’t just cut the fucking cord.

Even now, there’s an opportunity to end this dehumanizing charade, and yet Dirk does nothing but straighten his spine and sniff back the impending tears.

“Right. Got it.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dirk’s hand pauses on the doorknob and he’s not fast enough to stop the full-body shudder. Maybe Jake sees it. Maybe he doesn’t. Either way, there’s no mention made.

“Me too,” Dirk says.

Jake doesn’t follow him out and that’s probably for the best. Dirk beelines it straight to the living room where Roxy is pacing back and forth, chewing at her thumbnail. Her eyes go big and wide when she sees him, face crumpling. It’s not the superficial beach trip that she’s worried about; it’s being caught in the middle of a waging war between two close friends.

“Get your stuff together,” he tells her. “We’re still going.”

“Dirk…”

Stubbornly, he grabs his own bag, packed hours earlier, and slings it over his shoulder. Roxy doesn’t budge, even when he looks at her expectantly.

“We don’t have to,” she says. “It’s fine. Really.”

It’s not fine. It’s so fucking far from fine. He can’t be in this tiny, stifling apartment a moment longer. Not when Jake is a room away. He needs to get out. “Come on.”

“Dirk.”

“Let’s go.”

Roxy stamps her foot, mouth turned into a frown. “Stop it!”

It knocks Dirk right back to reality, makes him realize that. Fuck. He’s doing it again. Controlling everyone like puppets on a string, making them dance how he wants because he knows best. He’s always right.

What a fucking _joke_.

He’s too busy flailing, tangled in his own puppet wire, to ever lead someone on the right path.

He lets the bag slip from his shoulder; it falls to the ground with a soft thud and so does he. Dirk grabs at the hem of Roxy’s shirt and pulls her to him, burying his head into her stomach to hide the embarrassing sound of sobs. Her hand finds the back of his head, stroking lightly.

No. This was never about a canceled beach trip, he reminds himself again. Not for any of them.

She shushes him, cooing lightly under breath. It should feel infantilizing but Dirk soaks it up like a plant hungry for sunlight. He doesn’t look up when he hears the bedroom door open and close, or when he hears the heavy footsteps down the hall. He doesn’t look up when he hears Jake and Roxy exchange something in a hushed whisper, inaudible to his ears. He doesn’t look up when Jake lightly touches the back of his neck, dragging fingers down his spine.

And he doesn’t look up when Jake inevitably leaves.

* * *

Crocker  
  
hey, you’re probably driving right now!  
but i just got out of my interview.

Dirk blinks blearily at his phone. The tears stopped hours ago, and now he’s left with a pounding headache and a half-empty glass of water. That doesn’t stop him from squinting to the tiny words on his bright screen ten more times.

Nah. Plans got canceled.  
How’d it go?  
booooooring.  
but oh, man. i’m sorry to hear that. is everything alright?

Dirk rolls over on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows for optimal dual-thumb texting. It’s not like he’s going to spill his guts to Crocker, but a little passive-aggressive vague-messaging sure won’t make him feel _worse_.

Me and Rox will be fine.  
Shit happens.  
aww.  
i’m a little upset though.  
Why?  
i may have been looking forward to that swimsuit picture.  
just a little bit.

For the first time in hours, Dirk laughs. It’s a quick thing that makes his head split like a melon but, hey. Feels like a small victory.

I can still send one.  
You’ll just have to imagine that my shitty bathroom is the beach and not, in fact, a shitty bathroom.  
hmm.  
no thanks!

His stomach drops. Oh.

Alright.  
i have a better idea!  
what if you and roxy came here?  
i have a pool. it’s no beach but it’ll probably be easier to pretend that it is over your self-proclaimed shitty bathroom.

Dirk sits up abruptly, running a hand through his hair, heart racing in his chest. He reads the message one more time for good measure.

Yeah. That’s an invitation.

He’s not sure why it comes as a surprise, the small amount of time they’ve spent together, John’s been nothing but invitations. Sex had generally been involved beforehand though, and Roxy’s already established he’s a pay-to-play type of guy. Literally.

He must be taking too long to reply because another text comes through, phone pinging in his hand.

i'll pay, of course!

Ah, there it is.

Ok. But heads up, I don’t cross streams.  
Ain’t enough money in the world for that.  
i’m sorry. was that a ghost busters reference?  
Yeah.

He grimaces.

nice!

He sighs in relief.

but yeah, no problem! i just meant come over and swim.  
no funny business required!  
unless you want there to be.  
whatever. we’ll see where the night takes us!

Huh. Looks like Roxy was right. The guy can’t let his guard down long enough to swim with a couple of hookers for free. And Dirk knows that typically he’d be on the same side of that fence, guard up like an impenetrable fortress, but his argument with Jake has left him feeling…

Fuck it.

One second.

Dirk gets up, pocketing his phone, and heads to Roxy’s room before his bravado fades and critical thinking takes the reins again. He knocks once and opens the door, leaning on the frame with all his false confidence, content with pretending like she didn’t witness his full-blown breakdown just hours ago.

It takes her a moment to notice he’s there, off in her own little world, head bobbing to whatever music pumps through the speakers of her light-up headphones. She scrambles to take them off, sitting up a little straighter, and smiles. The worried look in her eye isn’t easily concealed.

“Hey!” she says, cautiously chipper. “Good to see you upright.”

Dirk shrugs, cuts right to the chase. “You want to get paid to swim?”

Roxy blinks. “What?”

“Crocker just offered to pay us for a pool party. You want in?”

“Oh!” She bounces up, crawling off the bed. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I did.”

“What! No, you totally worded it like some creepy internet ad!” To demonstrate, she does her best Dirk Strider impression—which consists of pitching her voice low and exaggerating his southern drawl. “Do you want to get paid to swim?”

Well, shit. Can’t argue with that.

“Click here to find out now,” he adds, deadpan.

Roxy dissolves into a fit of giggles. “Okay, okay. But wait, are you being for realsies right now? Like you aren’t pullin’ my leg?”

She looks so hopeful; he couldn’t back out now if he wanted to. Even as the reality of what he’s just proposed sinks in and the adrenaline wears off. He’d just been desperate for something good. Fun. He told himself he wouldn’t see John again but—

Who the fuck is he trying to kid? He knew exactly what he was doing when he sent John the Venmo message.

“Pack your stuff up, I’ll call us a ride.”

He turns, shaking his head fondly at the sound of her pleased squeal, and shoots a text to John.

Alright.  
really?  
Yeah.  
wow, ok!  
roxy should have my address! just let me know what kind of car you’re in and buzz the front gate when you get here.  
Sounds good. Should I have the butler take my coat upon arrival?  
oh, hardy har har.  
see you soon!  
don’t forget your sexy speedo!

Dirk hides a smile behind his hand, looking around the living room to make sure none of the roaches see him blushing like a fuckin’ schoolgirl getting asked to the big dance.

Got it.

* * *

“You sure you’re okay with this D-Stri?”

They’re standing in front of John’s front door and Dirk’s been staring at it for about the past five minutes, frozen in place.

Of course, he’s okay with it. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s going to knock. Eventually. Gotta shut up all those blaring warning sirens sounding off in the back of his mind first.

He’s totally cool.

“Because you totes look like you’re about to blow chunks all over his door,” Roxy adds when he’s said nothing in return.

Dirk grimaces. “I’m not.”

“I’m just saying!” She throws up her hands in dramatic defeat, feigning exasperation. At least, Dirk thinks she’s feigning it. He turns his head just a fraction to check. The panic that he can’t hide reflects back to him, bouncing off her heart-shaped shades.

“I’m not,” he repeats. “Why wouldn’t I be okay with this?”

In other words, Dirk wants her to explain to him why he feels like he’s going to, as she so graciously put it, blow chunks all over John's door. Other than the obvious. She knows his rule about clients and houses and sex and how this is semi-breaking it. John had, in so many words, said that wasn’t on the menu. Unless Dirk wanted it to be. Which, he doesn’t. Because then he’d full-blown be breaking that rule and what kinda man would that make him?

A man with shoddy business practices, that’s what.

Roxy places a hand on his shoulder, bringing him back to earth. Back to John’s doorstep. “Earlier,” she begins softly. Dirk tenses. “Look, I know you’re all tore up about things falling through this weekend, and I know it’s not ‘cause you really wanted to go to the beach. Are you okay?”

“Hell of a time to ask me that, Rox.” Dirk eyes the door warily. There’s no way John hasn’t been alerted that they’ve arrived. They were buzzed in going on ten minutes ago. He sighs. “Yeah, I’m fine. This ain’t about Jake.”

Just hearing Jake’s name makes his stomach churn and guilt rise like bile in the back of his throat. Lying to Roxy isn’t his favorite thing to do, but sometimes it’s necessary. Plus, he’s more so lying for his own well-being. Thinking about having a heart-to-heart on Crocker’s porch about his estranged boyfriend makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

He got his answer though, to the feeling in his gut. Guilt.

Guilt because he’s hanging onto his relationship by a hair’s thread; like he’s got one hand in Jake’s while he teeters over the ledge of a cliff. He should be using two hands to pull him back up, but he isn’t. He can’t. Not when the other one is too busy desperately reaching for John Crocker. Shouldn’t he be fighting harder?

“Okay,” she says but he can tell she doesn’t believe him. “Well, you wanna knock? Or…I can call us another ride.”

“No,” Dirk blurts, too quickly. “John’s already paid us.”

Huh. He thought that excuse would make him feel better. Turns out he feels worse.

Roxy frowns and that doesn’t help. “That’s—”

Dirk looks her directly in the eye, shade to shade, and rings the doorbell. With purpose. He gives her a smug look that…

Fades instantly.

His finger has barely lifted from the button when the door swings open, John on the other side. How the fuck long has he been standing there? No. Dirk doesn’t want to know; then he’d have to contemplate how much John’s _heard._

“I was wondering if you two were going to make it! When you said you were in a van, I had my suspicions. I was ready to files a missing person report and everything!” John grins but it’s clear he’s nervous.

“Oh, no worries! It was more of an SUV,” Roxy chimes in, rocking back on the balls of her feet. Bless her for taking over. “Dirk here doesn’t know shit about cars!”

Scratch that. Bless nothing.

“Well, we’re here now, intricate and unnecessary vehicle details aside,” Dirk grumbles. “You gonna let us in?”

John has the decency to look embarrassed, ducking his head demurely before stepping aside and letting them through. In the foyer, he and Roxy latch onto each other in a long production of a hug, full-tilt picking her up and spinning while she giggles. It makes Dirk’s stomach do a funny thing. It's not like wants or expects the same kind of greeting. That’d be absurd. Just kinda strange seeing them together.

The way John lights up and smiles, how genuinely happy he looks to see her. The way she looks the same.

Boyfriend material, isn’t that what Roxy said?

Dirk turns away to let them catch up, meandering through the foyer with his hands shoved in his pockets. He didn’t get a good look at the outside of the place. The sun had already been close to setting, that weird time of night where everything is still light but dimmed blue and gray. He’d been too in his head to process anything other than: _Holy fuck, what am I doing?_

The foyer, though? It’s nice.

Beyond a square-cut entryway lays a sprawling open-concept living area, equipped with a fancy modern fireplace in the center. The furniture is minimal and sleek, the kind of features that are somehow tasteful while having zero taste. Dirk would be willing to bet all his money that John hired out some asshole with a hard-on for HGTV to decorate. 

He stops at an entry table pressed against the wall. It holds four things: a decorative bowl harboring a set of keys, a fake house plant, and two photographs. It’s the latter that gets his attention.

The first photo is of a young John and some older man, who Dirk can only assume is his dad; they look similar enough. John’s on his shoulders, hanging onto the brim of his father’s hat, laughing with an open mouth and missing teeth. A candid shot where they both look happy, taken with a disposable camera if the quality is anything to go by.

The second picture…

Dirk recognizes John’s mother immediately; an old Hollywood legend, a starlet who’d graced the silver screen and built an empire for herself. That’s about the extent of his knowledge on the subject; it’s not really in his wheelhouse of gossip. He could probably ask Jake.

In the photo, she sits proud and regal while young John stands at her side, solemn in expression. Everything looks forced and unnatural, right down to her toothy grin.

The disparity between the two photographs is enough to give a guy whiplash.

“Are you being nosey, Mr. Strider?” The words are spoken right against his ear, making him jump. John places a hand on his waist, laughing warmly. “I’m joking, it’s fine. That’s why they’re there.”

“Is that your dad?” Dirk asks to distract himself from the heat of John’s chest as he leans in to rest his chin on his shoulder. Fingers drum along his hipbone. “I’ve never seen him before.”

John hums. “He wasn’t much for the spotlight.”

“Smart guy. I don’t blame him.”

“Me either, but not everyone has that luxury,” he says, voice quiet and melancholy.

Dirk looks again at the picture of John and his mother. No more than seven and already there’s a hollowness behind his eyes. He gets lost in the background; a shrinking shadow next to her throne. It speaks volumes to anyone listening, but Dirk isn’t sure anyone ever has.

Suddenly, a lot of things make sense.

“Enough of that!” John chirps, guiding Dirk back around and away from the table. The earlier sadness is gone, replaced with cheery enthusiasm. Just like that. “Is your swimsuit in your bag?”

“Uh. Yeah?”

“Great!”

John pushes at the center of Dirk’s back, guiding him toward an inconspicuous door. The whole thing is disorienting, and his mind works to play catch-up to whatever the fuck is going on. One second, he’s minding his own business; the next, he’s being shoved into a guest bathroom and instructed to change.

It all feels like an elaborate ploy to get him away from the pictures.

It worked.

Dirk changes into his trunks and carefully tucks his daywear into the bag, along with his shades.

The bruises on his skin are more vivid in this lighting, especially compared to the dim yellow of his bathroom back home. Dirk cranes his neck to the side to see, gingerly pressing with his fingertips. Purple has faded to yellow and green, discolored like a bruised peach. At least it’s dark out.

Dirk steps out into the hallway to see John’s back at the table.

“John?”

He turns, snapping his mass-produced smile back into place. There’s no reason for Dirk to call him out on it, so he doesn’t. But he does notice both photographs are placed facedown now.

There’s no reason to call that out either.

John’s eyes drop below Dirk’s belt, and his fake smile morphs into a real frown. “No speedo?”

“No speedo.” Dirk looks down at his board shorts; neon orange with a generic palm tree silhouette on one leg. He’d bought ‘em at some surf shop in Long Beach years ago. Maybe worn them twice. “I told you.”

John falls into step at his side, guiding him toward and through the living room. “I thought maybe you were joking! No offense—”

“You know that’s always a precursor for something hella offensive, right?”

“—But given how you typically dress.”

“I’m going to stop you right there. You’ve only seen me in my work clothes.”

“You mean naked?”

“Wow.”

“That was a joke.”

They stop in front of a sliding glass door, camouflaged amongst floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the pool yard. Roxy’s already out there, mixing herself a drink at the outdoor bar, all while sporting her new pink bikini. She catches sight of them and waves. John waves back.

Dirk groans and lets himself out.

* * *

Together, John and Roxy are chaos incarnate.

They match each other, shot for shot, laughing boisterously at private, inside jokes. Half of them are probably made up on the spot, seeing that they’re getting pretty drunk. Dirk ends up sitting on the ledge of the pool with only his feet dangling in the water.

He feels like an awkward third wheel.

They’re cute together, he thinks. They work. Roxy, for one, is John’s known type—and Dirk already knows that Roxy’s client line is blurred with John. So is his, but that’s beside point.

The two of them are at least plausible.

Why the fuck is he even thinking about this? It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. Roxy would be a godsend for Crocker. Just look at the way he smiles when she plucks her decorative umbrella from her drink and tucks it behind his ear. The media had the wrong Lalonde.

Dirk looks away.

This was a bad idea. He should have stayed home and sent Roxy by herself. Jake is going to come home to an empty apartment, fresh out of their fight, and Dirk isn’t going to be there to pick up the pieces. For once, selfishly, he didn’t want to be the one to do it. So tired of cutting his fingers on the sharp edges every time they break.

He’d just wanted to enjoy himself.

“Hey!”

The voice comes from next to his kneecap. Dirk looks down at the water, where John’s emerged, dark hair plastered to his face in wet ringlets. He pushes it back from his eyes, grinning up at Dirk’s somber perch.

“I thought you were here to swim,” he says with playful accusation. "So, what are you doing?"

There’s a clever retort on the tip of his tongue, but it doesn’t make it out. He’s too distracted by water droplets and the way they cling to John’s lashes, perfectly framing his bright blue eyes.

Roxy answers for him. “He’s brooding!”

“Oh?” John looks up, perplexed. “Why?”

Oh, shit. She’s more than a couple of drinks in, and when that happens, she likes to— “He got into a big fight with his boyfriend.”

Do that.

And, because he’s truly a glutton for punishment, Dirk immediately looks to John, watching for his reaction. His smile falters for a moment, quickly flickering back to life. That’s it. It happens so fast, Dirk wonders if he imagined it.

“I’m sorry,” John says. “That’s tough.”

“Yeah.”

Roxy looks between the two of them, back and forth. Dirk sees the exact moment it clicks. The exact moment that she realizes John didn’t know about Jake. A literal fucking cricket chirps in the distance, the only thing breaking the awkward silence.

“I’m going to go grab some more ice,” she says, clapping her hands together with a wet smack that seems to draw them all out of their trance.

Dirk glares at her. No way. She’s not about to make this situation awkward and then bail. Not happening.

Except that she is, and she does.

Roxy climbs out of the pool in record time, wrapping a borrowed towel around her body and skittering to the door. She turns just before she heads inside to give Dirk an apologetic look. He’d flip her off if John weren’t still staring straight at him.

The door closes with a click and Dirk debates getting up and going after her. Ice is heavy. She might need help. Or maybe he’ll use the classic excuse of, _gotta take a piss_.

“I don’t want to be, you know, presumptuous,” John says before he can do any of that. “But was your fight because of me?”

Dirk snorts. “I don’t know, bro. That’s pretty fucking presumptuous if you ask me.”

“I only meant because we’d been texting! I have it on good authority that’s not something you typically do.” John sounds genuinely distressed, brows slanted in a worried tilt. “I’m not trying to be a homewrecker or anything.”

“Oh my god.”

“What!”

Dirk sighs, running his hand down his face. He can’t fucking believe Roxy just pulled the pin out of a grenade, launched it right at him, and ditched. Now he has John Crocker whining at his lap, living out some fantasy where he’s the other woman.

“You’re not a homewrecker,” Dirk says. “My boyfriend is well aware of what I do, and he doesn’t care. At all. We have an arrangement. If it’s a job, it’s free-range. You’re paying me, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then this is a job.” He can’t look John in the eye after he says it. The words leave his mouth and he hates them. They make him feel sick.

But it’s the truth.

“Out of all the problems Jake and I have, you’re surprisingly not one of them.”

Why can’t he shut the fuck up? Why does he keep talking? John’s blinking at him like a deer in headlights. Dirk’s driving this puppy straight into the ground. Foot, meet mouth.

“I’m going to go check on Roxy,” John finally says. Mechanical and distant.

“Yeah.”

Dirk watches as John wades to the steps to climb out, picking up his towel from the lounge chair and roughly drying off. More of an effort than Roxy, at least. There’s a part of Dirk that wants to get up and go with him, make sure his friend ain’t puking her guts up somewhere, but he knows it’s just John’s excuse for a getaway. Just like the ice had been for Roxy.

And if John doesn’t come back, Dirk can at least respect their boundaries and not bust inside, interrupting whatever might be going down.

He looks around, taking note of the high, concrete fence surrounding the backyard. There’s gotta be a gate somewhere so he can sneak out and meet a rideshare in the driveway. Fuck. But his clothes are in his bag, still inside. Bathing Suit Walk of Shame wasn’t exactly something he’d been planning on adding to his resume.

Dirk leans back, flat on the concrete, arms spread out on either side. Above him, the stars shine brightly, twinkling in tiny, scattered clusters. Holy shit. When did it get so dark? It’s been so long since he’s seen stars. They’re barely visible in the heart of the city.

He doesn’t think about how they make him feel small because he’s not that fucking cliché.

The back door slides open. Dirk doesn’t move; his heart doesn’t even beat. It’s either Roxy or John, but not both. There’s only one set of footsteps pattering across the wet ground. They sound heavier than what he’d peg for Roxy. Must be—

“She’s out cold,” John says.

Bingo.

Dirk pulls himself back up, leaning back on his hands. On the opposite side of the pool, John mirrors his position, sitting on the ledge so he’s only in the water from the knee down. The pool is a decent size, a warped oval shape pinched in the middle. Realistically, they’re at the closest points but the distance feels like a mile.

“I should wake her up before she gets too comfy,” Dirks says. “She’ll be a complete grouch on the way home if I don’t do it now”

“Just let her sleep it off here.”

“You’ve met Roxy, right? Sleeping it off means she’ll be here until noon tomorrow.”

John looks like he’s very aware of that fact. He shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

“I do.”

Again, unfazed, John shrugs. “You’re welcome to stay too. Before you say anything, I have a guest room you can sleep in. No funny business.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that,” Dirk comments, deflecting the flutter in his chest. “You realize you’re _in_ the funny business, right? That’s your whole schtick.”

“But you don’t think I’m funny,” John counters, a stupid grin on his face. “Gotcha.”

“No, but I appreciate the irony of you being in the business without being funny at all. I’m not a heathen. I can recognize peak humor, whether or not it’s intentional.”

“Ugh,” he groans. “You sound just like Dave.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s not a compliment!”

John slips off the ledge and back into the water, hissing at the temperature. He looks ethereal in the night, surrounded by the aqua glow of the pool lights. Blue that bounces off his face, illuminating his dark skin. It’s hard not to be entranced with the way he easily propels himself closer and closer.

He stops just short of Dirk’s knees. “You didn’t answer the question though.”

Dirk can’t look away, and he damn well can’t answer the question. He may as well be sitting at the bottom of the pool with the way he can’t fucking breathe, lungs frozen in place. Fuck all the clichés in the world, it’s the way John looks at him that makes him feel small. Unworthy, but he craves the attention all the same.

Under the water, John’s fingers gingerly brush against Dirk’s ankle, moving up his thigh until they break the surface. “Is this okay?”

That question, he can answer.

He nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

“Good.” John places a hand on each of his kneecaps and pushes them apart. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Dirk breaths heavy through his nose, nodding again. He doesn’t trust his voice right now not to break. The sight of John between his spread legs, wet and dripping, and luminescent, makes the inside of his head feel like television static. If he opens his mouth, he might say something irrevocably stupid.

“I think you’re funny,” Dirk blurts out the irrevocably stupid sentiment before he can stop himself. To do some damage control, he clarifies, “I mean the real you. Not whatever bullshit it is that you do on stage.”

John looks at him, blinking until slowly a smile unfurls on his face. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of Dirk’s swimsuit. “For the record, I was going to suck your dick even before you said that.”

And then he tugs on them just enough to tuck the band beneath his junk.

“Oh.”

It’s embarrassing to admit, but he’s been actively suppressing a full-blown semi almost all night. John just looks good soaking wet and shirtless, that’s not his fault. But he’s already firming up at an alarming rate. The anticipation turns him on. The look in John’s eyes as he wordlessly appraises it.

They’ve been in this position before, but this time Dirk’s too starved to deny himself.

John wraps a hand around his base, and it doesn’t take more than a couple of strokes to work him hard. As much as Dirk wants to watch it unfold, he can’t. There’s a quagmire of conflicting emotions stirring in his head. If he watches as John Crocker goes down on his first dick, he might come too soon. If he starts thinking about how he shouldn’t be here, he might not come at all.

Dirk drops his head back, staring unfocused at the blanket of stars above him, and doesn’t think about anything but the heat of John’s mouth, his tongue, and hands. The warm suction and throaty moans that vibrate through him, drawing him closer and closer to the edge. Even with his first-timer finesse, John gets him there quickly.

Fisting his fingers in damp hair, Dirk wills himself to look down at the last second. He gasps out a shuddering breath, shoulders shaking, legs trembling, and quickly pulls John off his cock.

“Gonna—” Dirk bites off the rest of his weak warning with a whine.

John closes his eyes and takes it better than a professional porn star. White stripes the bridge of his nose, across his cheek, dripping down to collect at the corner of his mouth. He looks debauched, utterly fucking depraved.

“Uh. Sorry about that,” Dirk mutters. He watches as John pokes out his tongue, licking away the stray glob and gagging. “Sorry about that too. It’s an acquired taste.”

John laughs, rolling his eyes, and plunges himself underwater to scrub at this face.

Kinda gross, Dirk thinks, but whatever. The chemicals will probably kill any lingering trace soon enough. He follows John’s lead and slips off the edge to rinse off and tuck himself away. John emerges, right in his personal bubble, grinning broadly.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello.”

John presses him against the side of the pool and Dirk instinctively lifts his legs to wrap around his hips. In the water, they’re both weightless. It’s easy for John to support Dirk with nothing but broad hands on his ass while he ruts against him, sighing heavily into the crook of his neck. 

He lasts about as long as Dirk had, which isn’t long at all. His hips stutter and he muffles his moan against Dirk’s throat and comes.

They stand like that, catching their breath, no words to break the postcoital haze. John kisses lazily up his bruised neck, whispering a series of hushed praises into his skin. How good he is; how good he feels. Each one pierces Dirk’s tender heart because they sound sincere. They don’t sound like empty words.

…And he’s not so sure how he feels about that.

“Are you leaving?” John asks quietly, fingertips tracing up Dirk’s sides.

He should, he knows that.

“You said you have a guest room?”

* * *

Jake  
  
Me and Rox won’t be back tonight. Just thought you should know.  
Sounds great. I hope the two of you have some good fun.  
Will do.  
And dirk?  
Yeah.  
When you get home i would like for us to talk. I think there are some things i need to say and that maybe ive needed to say them for a while.  
If thats ok with you?  
Sure.  
Goodnight.  
**Delivered** Or you can say them right now.

Dirk places his phone face down on the mattress, holding his breath until it becomes painful. He stares at the unfamiliar ceiling. There are no water damage spots to focus on, no cracks on the surface. It leaves him alone with his thoughts and he hates it.

Jake is leaving him.

He feels it like a sixth sense. Not that it would surprise anyone in the least. It’s been a long time coming and god, maybe he should text back and swing the ax before Jake gets the chance. His one final act of control.

His phone pings.

Fuck.

Here it goes.

Crocker  
  
are you up?  


John.

Dirk doesn’t know whether or not it’s relief or dread that he’s experiencing. Relief that it’s not Jake. Dread that the message from Jake is still to come. He rolls over to his side and messages John back in the meantime.

Crocker  
  
Did you seriously just send me a “you up?” text even though I’m literally in your house?  
thanks for answering me in the rudest way possible!  
You’re welcome.  
Can’t sleep?  
no, not really. what are you doing?  
I’m currently in the middle of an absolutely titillating game of chess.  
It’s three o’clock in the morning, Crocker. What do you think?  
sheesh, you’re cranky. :P  
i’m going to guess that’s a mental game of emotional chess that you’re playing.  
…  
check mate!  
Damn. You got me there.  
Ok, I’ll bite. Why are you up?  
i was wondering if I could ask you something.  
Oh boy.  
so, this rule of yours…  
the whole “i’m not sleeping with you in your bed” rule.  
is that a boyfriend thing?  
Uh.  
sorry, i guess what i’m trying to ask is…  
uggggggggh.  
is that part of your “arrangement”?  
If you’re asking me if that’s one of his terms when it comes to me doing my job, no. That rule is completely mine.  
so, you don’t think he’d care?  
Probably not.  
…No.  
ok, next question.  
what if it’s not MY bed?  
Are you trying to find a loophole in my clause? Good luck. My shit is airtight, bro.

Dirk doesn’t realize he’s smiling until an immediate response doesn’t come through and it begins to fade. Either John fell asleep or got fed up with his attempt at antagonistic flirting. Both options are pretty valid excuses.

His phone pings again and Dirk swipes at the screen, expecting to see blue.

Jake  
  
Well actually, if its all the same to you, i think this is something that needs to be said face to face. Man to man, as they say. I believe i owe you that much.  
But try not to fret.

Wordlessly, Dirk puts his phone into sleep mode and immediately beings to fret.

Shit.

_Fuck._

He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, an explosion of color and shapes forming behind his eyelids. The contents of his stomach threaten to come up. Oh, god. He’s going to be sick.

Maybe he needs to go the fuck home and have this conversation now. That’s what he really wants to do. But he’s already told Jake that he’ll be out all night and the last thing he needs is to prove what a clingy, helpless child he is. If he can just close his eyes and go to sleep, they can leave first thing in the morning.

Dirk starts counting sheep.

One, two, three…

Someone knocks at his door.

Four, five, six…

“Dirk?” John peeps his head around the corner. “You didn’t fall asleep, did you?”

All his mental sheep scatter. Son of a bitch.

Dirk sits up, squinting in the dark to see John’s silhouette enter the room. The urge to reach out to him is strong. Too strong. He curls his hands into fists to stop himself.

“Nah, what’s up?”

“Technically, this isn’t my bed,” John points out. “It’s a guest bed, and you’re my guest. So, in conclusion, this is your bed.”

Dirk blinks. “That’s the shittiest logic I’ve ever heard.”

Even in the dark, he can see John’s grin, the white of his teeth prominent in the filtered moonlight. “But you admit that it’s logic?”

“No.” Dirk pulls back the covers, scooting over to make room. “Get in.”

The whole bed bounces with John’s weight as he dives in and he immediately pulls Dirk into his arms. It’s unfairly comforting, and Dirk isn’t willing to admit out loud how good it feels to be in back in his familiar embrace. Instead, he lets himself melt into it, cheek smashed against his warm, solid chest while strong arms envelop him.

Every inhale has the scent of John’s cologne. Dirk closes his eyes and breathes it in.

“If you want to me leave, just give the word and I’ll go.” The words are whispered against the crown of his head, into Dirk’s mess of chlorine curls. “I swear.”

“No.” Dirk swallows, tightening his hold, digging fingers into the meat of John’s back to keep himself anchored. He refuses to think about anything outside of the moment. “I think I want you to stay.”


	9. Chapter 9

The morning drags Dirk back to lucidity by the nape of his neck, his consciousness slowly crawling awake as it trudges out of the sticky tree sap of sleep.

Warmth surrounds him from all sides. Legs tangled with legs, arms wrapped around his middle, twined around his torso to hold a firm pressure against his back, keeping his cheek flush against hot skin. Dirk inhales, mind still foggy, and buries his nose in coarse hair.

He can’t remember the last time he’s woken up to Jake holding him like this. Usually, it’s to the visual of a back turned coldly, or to nothing at all.

Eyes still closed, Dirk roams his palms up Jake’s back, splaying his hands beneath his shoulder blades, pressing a kiss to the skin already beneath his lips. Above him, Jake hums, sleepy and pleased, shifting the leg lodged between Dirk’s knees higher until it nudges at his morning erection.

Oh, _hello_.

Dirk gasps, panting open-mouthed against his chest, and rocks down. The fingers of one hand dig into soft skin while the other seeks purchase in a thick tangle of curls. Jake’s hair isn’t normally this long; a concerning thought that’s abandoned as quickly as it arrived. He’s too distracted by the way Jake’s hand moves down his back, gracefully playing his spine like a piano before dropping down to give his ass a playful squeeze.

Well. This is one hell of an alarm. He could get used to this.

Dirk slips his hand down to cradle Jake’s cheek, finally letting his eyes flutter open.

The color blue, not green, greets him.

“Morning,” John mumbles, voice rough with sleep. He shifts his leg again, pressing his thigh more insistently against Dirk’s crotch, and corrects himself. “Sorry. _Good_ morning.”

John.

Of course, it’s John.

Guilt, it seems, is slowly becoming an ever-present factor in Dirk’s life. His stomach feels queasy for assuming different. Isn't that fucked? He feels bad for fantasizing about his goddamn boyfriend. And now he yearns to make up for the slight. Make it up to John, who isn’t even aware he’s been wronged.

John, who deserves better than Dirk’s fickle heart and suffocating rules.

John, who won’t let himself have better.

Dirk, who will have to be good enough.

Yeah. It’s fucked.

Dirk doesn’t say anything, reaching down to lightly stroke the front of John’s boxers. He’s hard, a damp spot already soaking through the soft fabric, and Dirk thumbs it, reveling in the way John gasps his name and arches into the touch. There’s no room for second-guessing, and Dirk’s mind hangs suspended in a haze of sleep-softened logic. No thinking allowed. He just wants John to feel good.

That’s what he pays him for.

Dirk untangles himself enough to push John flat against the bed. The noise he gets in return isn’t one of protest, but soft and inquiring. Dirk shushes him before that curiosity can be verbalized, positioning himself so that he’s on his side, propped up by one elbow, and looking down at plush lips. Lips that he’s shamefully thought about kissing more than once. The one rule he can’t break.

Dirk finds blue eyes instead, choosing to focus on the way John’s pupils dilate when the pressure on his cock increases.

“Dirk—” John sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and everything else is lost to a high-pitched keen. He bucks under Dirk’s palm, frantically seeking its friction while his fingers twist the sheets. “C’mon, please.”

“Already begging,” Dirk observes with feigned indifference. He smiles long enough for John to see it and dips his head to mouth at the crook of his neck, kissing him sweetly just below his ear.

He shows mercy after that, pulling John’s cock out from beneath the elastic band of his boxers to stroke him properly. No lube makes for a rough time, but Dirk knows a few tricks to still make it good. He spits in his palm and spreads it down alongside the beaded precome at the tip.

John comes shortly after with a low whine. Caught up in the euphoria, Dirk works him through it and then some, still pumping his slick fist long after John’s gone soft in his hand. Caught up in every micro-expression of ebbing pleasure and building pain that’s wrought on his handsome face. Inexplicably drunk from the dizzying power-high of getting John Crocker off.

Twice.

In less than twenty-four hours.

Dirk scrambles to sit upright on his knees, ignoring John’s affronted grumble, and shoves his briefs down to mid-thigh. The combination of his wet hand, his desperation, and John’s eyes fixated on his fist as he jerks himself off, is a deadly one. He’s already close, but John breathes out a quiet instruction of, “ _On me, Dirk, on me,_ ” and that’s all there is to it.

Dirk doubles over in a silent moan, aiming the best he can to stripe his release across John’s stomach and chest. And he damn-near _transcends_ when John runs his hand through the mess, smearing it on his skin like a fine lotion.

“Jesus fucking Christ, dude.”

John laughs. “Sorry, is that weird?”

“Uh.”

“I like it,” he insists, shrugging casually like he’s just mentioned his favorite Netflix series. “It’s hot.”

Well. That was the most John answer Dirk could have possibly fathomed. He doesn’t argue though, mostly because he can’t. It _was_ pretty hot—and John begging for it had been what pushed him over the edge so, who is he to judge?

Dirk flops back on the bed, wiping his dirty hand on the sheets, uncaring. It’s not _his_ bed, after all, no matter what piss-poor logic they’d decided on last night when John crawled in. Plus, there’s probably butlers or something to wash the linens. It’s fine.

When Dirk turns his head, he finds that John is already looking at him. There’s an intense fondness radiating from his grin. Crinkles in the corners of his eyes. A dimple in his cheek. Nothing about it reads as artificial. It's not a look Dirk typically finds directed at him and it’s utterly fucking terrifying.

But, that particular can of emotional turmoil aside, there’s something far more mundane, almost comical, nagging at him.

“Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?” Dirk asks, watching John’s smile drop to a crooked line of uncertainty.

“What do you mean?”

“You know,” he says, vague and unhelpful. There’s really no easy way to broach the subject.

“Well,” John huffs, squirming uncomfortable, shifting his gaze to the ceiling. “I wasn’t going to mention it.” A pause. “For your sake.”

Dirk’s eyebrows make a valiant attempt to crawl past his hairline. “For _my_ sake?”

“Yeah, I figured it was breaking one of your ‘rules’. I don’t know, I guess you never specified, but it feels like one you’d have. No offense, but they’re pretty stupid rules.”

Offense taken. One, because John’s yet again used air-quotes to encase the word “rules”. Two, because they’re not stupid. They’re carefully laid out for his protection. Not that he expects a pertinent level of understanding in that department.

“John, listen to me,” Dirk says, evenly as possible. He places a hand on John’s shoulder, steadying him for the colossal bomb he’s about to drop. “You’re not straight.”

For a long time, John says nothing. He stares and stares. The cogs visibly turn behind his blinking eyes, struggling to work out the truth in what’s been told to him. An intimate missing puzzle piece of self-awareness has finally popped into place. His hand comes to rest atop of Dirk’s, patting it lightly, an absolutely pitiful gesture.

“Dirk,” he says calmly, mouth stretched in a mechanical smile. “No shit.”

Somewhere in the medium of space, a record scratches.

“What?”

“Yeah, I mean, we’ve—” John points back and forth between the two of them, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, “— _you know_ , more than once. I just assumed it was obvious that I came to terms with it? Holy shit. You didn’t. Dirk. Did you think I was sleeping with you and—”

“Shut up.”

“You did!” John rubs his hands down his face, shoulders shaking with muffled laughter. “Oh my god. You did. Dirk, I'm not a teenage boy. We fucked and I liked it and I wanted to do it again. There's not a lot of room for argument.”

Never in his life has Dirk been more embarrassed, and that's fucking saying something because he's no stranger to humiliation, negotiated kink or not. His cheeks flush hot enough to fry a fucking egg. He sputters, trying to spit out an excuse, but that just trips him up more. A guy covered in his jizz is having a nice chuckle at his expense. Seriously. There’s an honest-to-god tear rolling down John’s cheek.

Dirk wants to smother him with a pillow.

“Stop,” he warns.

But John doesn’t stop. If anything, he laughs harder.

It gets harder for Dirk to contain himself. Every ridiculous snort John produces threatens to crack his armor. God. He wants to join in, but he has a certain image to uphold and he swallows the desire down.

And he swallows.

Up until the first laugh bubbles out, slipping from his lips on its own volition.

It startles him at first and he slaps a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to shove it back down. He can’t allow himself to break. Every moment with John is another brick taken from his guard. If he unclenches, who knows what kind of damage will be done.

He _can’t._

But then, from the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of the sheer reckless delight on John’s face and thinks, not for the first time, _fuck it_.

Dirk collapses under his own weight, pressing his forehead against the firm curvature of John’s shoulder, and allows himself to completely breakdown. It feels fucking amazing and he’s laughing. He’s laughing.

He’s laughing because it’s funny, in a sad way.

He’s laughing because it’s sad, in a funny way.

He’s laughing because he doesn’t have a _clue_ what he’s feeling.

He’s laughing because that’s a goddamn lie.

He’s laughing at his incomprehensible stupidity.

He’s laughing at the cosmic fucking joke that is his life.

He’s laughing because it feels good.

He’s laughing because it hurts.

But mostly, he’s laughing because John is, and that sound is enough to fill him with a warmth he didn’t know his body was still capable of producing. It simultaneously both mends and breaks him.

And by the time John quietens down, Dirk’s eyes are watery with tears and he's not sure whether or not it’s a physical thing, or emotional thing, or something in between. He sniffs down stray giggles, the last of them catching in his throat as he takes quick note of their proximity. On their sides, face to face.

He’s being watched.

“What?”

John shrugs, resting a hand on Dirk’s hip. His thumb begins a soft, circling stroke.

“Can I do something?”

“Depends,” Dirk says. It comes out as a hoarse whisper; he didn’t mean for it to. They’re just so close and his mind is racing toward pipe possibilities. The last time, John asked to kiss him.

“One second.” That’s all the warning Dirk gets before John twists around, pawing at the nightstand for something. He comes back with his phone, already swiping his thumb across the screen and pulling up the camera app. The look he gives Dirk is shy, almost anxious. “Can we, uh…?”

He wants to take a picture.

“Sure.” Dirk swallows hard, nodding because he doesn’t trust his voice to do much else. His chest hurts with how fast his heart his beating.

It makes no fucking sense. They just got off together. Last night, John blew him on the ledge of his expensive pool. John has eaten his ass like a Sunday buffet. They’ve _fucked._ But when John shuffles them around so that Dirk’s tucked under his arm, Dirk still turns scarlet.

He stares at the image of them in the front-facing camera.

They both have serious cases of bedhead, curls unruly from drying damp. Dirk’s a little farther down on the ridiculous on end, looking like Heatmiser with the way his hair sticks up and away from his face. John, on the other hand, looks like he sat a bird’s nest on his head and called it fashion. Dirk isn't wearing his glasses and neither is John. It’s sorta weird to see John without his, now that Dirk’s looking. His eyes are still impossibly blue, stark against his dark skin and hair. Next to him, Dirk looks and feels like a ghost. Pale and gangly, and freckled orange.

“We look pretty nice together,” John says, a tender fondness seeping through. The arm around Dirk pulls him closer. “Okay, smile!”

John cheeses with big, white teeth. Dirk remains straight-faced but, without his glasses, it’s difficult to mask his affection. It’s there in his eyes. In the tilt of his head on John’s shoulder. On the hand that lays against John’s chest. He doesn’t need to smile.

Well. Fuck.

“Aww,” John coos. He pulls the phone down to examine the picture more closely, squinting at the screen. “It’s a good one! Want me to send it to you?”

The last thing Dirk needs is a reminder. He already knows that he’ll spend hours obsessively looking at it, picking it apart, convincing himself that John’s smile is falsely rendered.

“Sure,” he says.

Dirk watches as John opens up their last conversation, attaching the file and sending it. It’s odd to see his name saved. By all accounts, they’re two people that should've never exchanged numbers in the first place. But maybe John doesn’t fully grasp what’s in jeopardy by having a whore in his phonebook, or maybe he doesn’t care.

What had he said, back in the foyer while discussing his father’s aversion to fame?

_Not everyone has that luxury._

Dirk’s phone vibrates somewhere under the covers, startling him out of that particularly sad rabbit hole. Unfortunately, it plunges him headfirst into a new one. He’d almost forgotten.

“Hey. Earlier you said there was something that you weren’t planning on mentioning for my sake. I think it’s pretty obvious now that we were having two separate conversations at the time. You know, talkin’ about two different elephants.”

“Oh.” John scratches at his chest, humming thoughtfully. “Uh. Hmm.”

“Spit it out, old man,” Dirk teases. Offended probably isn’t a strong enough word for the look he gets.

“I’m not that much older than you!” John stops for a pause that fills with increasing horror. “Wait. How old are you?” He blindly reaches out to the nightstand, patting around for his glasses. That doesn’t help his case. Mostly, Dirk’s joking, but in the filtered morning sun, he does catch a few silvery strands weaved into the curls at his temples.

Wikipedia says he’s thirty-four.

“Relax, I’m well overage,” Dirk says, going for casual ambiguity, but John’s mouth only presses into a thin, unamused line. He relents with a sigh. “Fine. I’m twenty-six.”

“That’s…” John starts counting on his fingers.

One, two, three…

Dirk closes his fist over his hand, folding them down, and grimaces. “Don’t count.”

Eight. It’s eight years. He’s already done the math. God, the more he thinks about it, the worse their situation becomes. John is an older, notable figure in the pop-culture media circuit. An eligible bachelor in his prime. The scandal of being caught with a younger, male, prostitute is just the kind of messed-up, daytime soap opera shit the paparazzi is looking for. One small slip and they’d be all over him like flies on roadkill. He'd be ruined and cozied at the epicenter of this hypothetical catastrophic event would be Dirk.

John’s eyes are carefully focused on Dirk’s fingers atop his own, smiling privately to himself. The sight makes Dirk’s chest pull tight, his stomach flipping.

Christ. He doesn’t want to be John's downfall.

“You kissed me.”

_What?_

“What?”

John turns his head, biting his lip nervously. “That’s what I wasn’t going to mention earlier. You kissed me. You’ve never done that before.”

Did he? The thought crossed his mind, sure, but he’d definitely remember the taste of John’s lips or the feel of his mouth. There’s no way if he caved to the desire that it would've been fleeting enough for him to forget so quickly. Or maybe John had dreamed it. Or maybe Dirk had done it in his sleep. He’d confused John for Jake once already. It’s not too far outside the realm of possibility.

“Twice,” John clarifies in response to Dirk’s floundered silence.

It clarifies nothing and only flounders him further.

“What?”

“Oh, uhm. The first time was when you were first waking up and you kissed my chest,” he explains, nodding down toward the accused area. Dirk looks but sees no evidence. “Then, when we were messing around, you kissed my neck. So, you kissed me twice.”

Dirk blinks. That does seem vaguely familiar. No, yeah. He did that. Shit. He hadn’t meant to do it, just gut reactions, caught up in heat of the moment. Triggered reflexes.

“Necks are free game,” he says for the sake of saying something. “Right? I mean, look at mine.”

John winces and reaches out to brush his fingertips featherlight against the healing pattern of hickeys. “Sorry, I didn’t realize how carried away I got.”

“Yeah,” Dirk says.

“I just like kissing you.”

They were more so bites and sucks than kisses but, it barely crosses Dirk's mind to correct. Normally, he enjoys debating the tedious nature of semantics but not today. Not right now.

“Yeah?” Dirk asks.

John nods, gaze dropping shamelessly. The hand on Dirk’s neck moves up slowly, tenderness in his touch, stroking against the sensitive spot beneath his ear, trailing around the sharp curve of his jaw. John holds his chin in a loose grip and thumbs at his bottom lip, eyes darkening when Dirk sucks in a breath and shudders.

Between them, the air is electric. John is wordlessly asking for permission and Dirk feels inclined to grant it, breaking the promise he’s made to himself. That rule had only ever been put in place for Jake’s sake, enforced only by Dirk’s guilty conscious. Kissing was intimate. Kissing was reserved for his partner. Jake never really understood, or cared for that matter, but it helped to keep the line between work and Dirk’s personal life separated and defined.

But there’s a doomsday clock set on his relationship, the countdown already underway. Jake already has one foot out of the door, and when Dirk gets home, it’ll all be finalized. He hates to admit that it’s been a long time coming.

Maybe it’ll be better this way.

“Dirk?”

He wants John to kiss him, to take the decision out of his hands, to lend him some plausible deniability for later when the gnawing guilt kicks in. But John won’t cross that line without consent, he’s figured that much out. He’ll ask, and Dirk will have to answer.

He should do it himself. Rip the bandage off and deal with the horrible repercussions later.

Yeah.

Dirk gets one hand on the back of John’s neck, squeezing gently. John's skin is warm beneath his palm, radiating a heat that sinks deep into the core of his chest, giving him the strength to pull down, guiding their faces closer, and closer until John’s breath ghosts along his lips. Dirk feels it when John whispers his name. A question.

He leans in for an answer.

A loud knock comes from the other side of the closed bedroom door, shattering the moment like a sledgehammer to glass. Dirk pulls back, heart in his throat and John scrambles to pull the sheets over them in an impromptu attempt to hide their indecency. They’re not indecent; they’ve already tucked their dicks away. Dirk cowers behind John’s broad frame anyway, just to spare himself the residual embarrassment.

“Come in!”

The door creaks open. “There ya are, John! I was lookin’ all over for you. What are you doing in the guest room?”

Oh, right. He should have known. Dirk leans up from his hiding place, face flushed, looking guiltier than the cat that ate the canary. He smiles weakly. “Hey, Rox.”

“Dirk,” she gasps, pretending to be scandalized. “You’re here too?”

“We were just…talking,” John says, voice strained.

Roxy takes one look at them, half-naked with serious cases of sex hair, and barks out a laugh.

Dirk fights the urge to facepalm.

“Look. I don’t really wanna be the one to break up the major cuddlefest happening right now, it’s totes adorable and all, but I need to head back home soon. My shift at the diner starts in a couple of hours and I don’t think my manager wants me showing up in this.” She gestures to the sheer swimsuit cover-up that she apparently slept in, along with her bikini.

“A shame,” Dirk comments drily. “You’d make some bangin’ tips in that.”

"I know!" Roxy whines, stomping her foot like a petulant child. "It’s discrimination!”

He nods his head sagely, tutting under his breath. “They’re going to fire you for being too cute.”

During their playful exchange, John had busied himself with looking back and forth between them, jaw slack. Finally, he clears his throat. “I’m sorry. You work at a diner?”

“Oh!” Roxy exclaims. “Yeah! Not fulltime or anything, but it helps to have paystubs and proof of income, all that jazz. Can’t really put sleepin’ around on an application!”

John nods like he understands, looking to Dirk next. “Do you have a secret job I don’t know about?”

“Nah, I trick fulltime.”

“He used to work at a mechanic shop,” Roxy supplies. Dirk shoots her a look and she grins, winking. “He’s really good with his hands.”

God. He loves her, but she fucking sucks at playing wingman.

“You worked on cars?” John asks. He sounds genuinely curious; big, blue eyes staring like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s heard in ages.

It makes his chest flutter.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“Did you like it?”

He shrugs. Did he? He never thought much about it. A job is a job. But there had always been something deeply satisfying about being handed something broken and fixing it.

“I liked the technicality of it. I liked getting under a machine and figuring out what made it tick.” He remembers spending hours on his back under the belly of a car, to his elbows in grease. There was a certain art to it that he enjoyed. He always came home smelling like motor oil and sweat, but Jake had always been weirdly into. Probably the result of some internalized machoism complex. “Yeah. I liked it.”

“Why’d you quit then?” John asks.

Dirk freezes, eyes flitting to Roxy who smiles at him sadly.

“Wasn’t worth the transit. Long days stacked on top of my already long nights,” he lies. John accepts this answer with a nod. He doesn’t have to push it, but the truth tumbles out anyway. “Plus, it’s hard to be efficient in a work environment where you’re constantly gettin’ called slurs by a dude whose dick you sucked to get the position in the first place.”

“Oh!” His face goes red, then soft and a bit awkward. Under the sheets, John seeks out his hand and Dirk lets him without truly knowing why, turning his palm face-up so their fingers can slot together. “He sounds like an asshole. You’re better off.”

Dirk snorts. “Yeah.”

“Don’t worry, Dirk over here got ‘em good!” Roxy chimes in. “Show him your knuckles!”

Wow. She’s really trying to pitch a sale, huh? Too bad John’s already purchased him a couple of times over. Sorta beating a dead horse with that one. He still shows John the scar anyway, thankfully not located on the hand secretly entangled with his. It's just a thin silver line across his knuckle where a tooth had cut. Nothing to write home about.

“Signed my resignation with a fist.” He's well aware that he sounds like a high-school delinquent trying to flirt.

John whistles through his teeth, shaking his head. He’s playing up how impressed he is, but it’s sort of cute, in a dorky way. “Oh, man. Wish I could have seen that!”

“Yeah? Would that do it for you?” Dirk leans a little closer, smirk curling on his lips. His forehead knocks against John’s temple. “Want to see me knock some ignorant bastard’s teeth out?”

John nods enthusiastically.

Roxy gags.

* * *

They’re eventually corralled out of bed to a series of whistles, snaps, and claps from Roxy. She goes full high school gym coach on their asses. Dirk digs his clothes out of his bag and John reluctantly leaves to his room. Roxy stays behind, attempting to wheedle the deets of last night out of him. He tells her only slept. It’s the truth. She doesn’t believe him, but her mistake is not asking what they did that morning. It’s fine. He’ll tell her later.

They reconvene in the foyer.

And looks like someone took Roxy’s PE teacher roleplay a little too seriously. John’s dressed in a loose white t-shirt and blue gym shorts, leaning against the wall waiting for them. His eyes light up when they round the corner.

“I wish you didn’t have to go. This was fun.”

“Sorry, doll. We’ll do it again sometime!” Roxy brushes a kiss across his cheek as she passes him, heading straight to the door. Glancing over her shoulder, she finds Dirk and looks at him deliberately. “I’m gonna wait outside for the ride, okay? They should be here any minute.”

Dirk nods. That roughly translates to: _I’m giving you some alone time but hurry it the fuck up_.

Sure. He can do that.

The front door shuts and John looks at him, eyebrows raised. He rocks back and forth of the balls of his feet, palpably awkward. “Well?”

“Well,” Dirk concurs. He shifts his overnight bag, just as ungainly. “Thanks for having me.”

Wow. This is uncomfortable. A spectacular showcase as to why he doesn’t do sleepovers. The morning after is too weird.

John rubs the back of his neck, eyeing Dirk up and down like he’s a particularly fucked-up Rubik’s cube. Finally, he sighs and holds his arms out. “Will you just come here?”

It takes all of two steps for Dirk to enter the prime radius for grabbing. John pulls him in, wrapping him up in a tight, swaying embrace. It’s the kind of hug you give a friend before they leave on a long trip. Constricting and warm. The kind where you can feel the heartbeat of the person hugging you. Dirk can’t help but wonder if John thinks he isn’t coming back.

He also can’t help but wonder when he decided that he would.

“Okay, you’re crushing my spine, Crocker. Sorta need that for standing.”

“Sorry,” John mumbles. He lessens his grip but doesn’t let go. “I’m glad you showed up.”

For a brief moment, Dirk lives in a world where John doesn’t pay him to be there. “Yeah. Me too. I meant it when I said thanks. Yesterday was a shit show and I think I needed this.”

“Good! I’m glad.” John's mouth stretches into that goofy grin of his. The one that never fails to thaw Dirk’s cold, hollow heart.

The truth of the matter is, he _had_ needed this. More than he realized. Spending time with John kept his mind so far from his fight with Jake, he hadn’t had time to properly digest the truth of what’s waiting for him back home.

Come to think of it—he may need some John Crocker quality time after the inevitable comes to pass. The shit show is leaving the building. The shit circus is coming to town.

“Hey, uh.” Dirk swallows. “Are you going to be free here in the next few days?”

“Oh! I’ll have to check my schedule. I know I’ve got some stuff lined up tomorrow and a few things here and there later in the week, but from what I remember, my month is pretty clear,” he explains, tilting his head. His grin grows impossibly wider, a cunning sparkle in his eye. “Why? Dirk Strider, do you want to see me again?”

Dirk throws his head back, groaning. “Not anymore.”

“Say it,” John teases. His fingers pinch at Dirk’s sides, threatening to tickle. “Say you want to see me again.”

Dirk purposely clamps his mouth shut, letting his face fall into a deadpan, thousand-yard stare. The picture of fucking stoicism. Look it up and there’d be a picture of Dirk’s mug smacked next to the definition. He isn’t going to say it. He’s stubborn. He’s intransigent. He’s…

Okay.

He’s fishing for John to put his hands on him.

And John delivers. He digs his fingers into the sensitive place beneath Dirk’s ribcage, but it’s not until his touch dances featherlight, closer to his armpit that Dirk breaks into an involuntary laugh. Fuck. Gave himself away. John looks delighted at his discovery, driving back in, flipping them so that Dirk’s pressed against the wall when he fights it. He doesn’t give up, burying his head against Dirk’s throat, ordering him to say it, _say it, Dirk. Say you want me._

Wait. That’s not the script.

Oh, _fuck._

When did John’s hands move to his ass? Better question—when did his legs wrap themselves around John’s hips? Holy shit. The fact that John can lift him off the ground with ease is enough to make his head spin. Suddenly, getting fucked against the wall moves up a couple of notches, stealing the number one spot for Best Idea in the World.

Outside, a car honks.

Dirk’s head thumps against the wall, and he laughs. Breathless. Goddamn, the universe hates him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “I want you. That sate your ego, Mister _I’ll-have-to-check-my-schedule_?”

John lets go of Dirk’s ass, dropping him to ground. He lands on his feet like a dignified hooker. Adjusting his semi is considerably less dignified, but at least John’s rocking one too. Gym shorts aren’t too forgiving in that respect.

“Consider it sated.” He brings Dirk in for another hug, reluctantly letting go after the car horn blares again. There’s a certain look on his face when he pulls away. Soft. Hesitant. Hungry.

Dirk’s no stranger to that look. John wants to kiss him, finish what they started in the bedroom. But as much as Dirk wants to give in, he can’t. Won’t. He needs to let Jake properly end things before he goes bending all the rules. He owes it to himself, and Jake, and John. Because Dirk knows, deep down, what will happen when he crosses this line. He’ll never be able to look at John without wanting to possess him completely.

And that’s not plausible right now. It might never be, probably won’t, but he doesn’t want to think about that.

So, Dirk steps out of John’s space, stumbling back to the door with an awkward wave. “I’ll text you.”

“See you soon?”

Dirk catches his dopey, hopeful smile right before he shuts the door two. It makes his gut flutters with nerves, anxiety, and the sweet drip of adoration.

“Yeah,” he promises. “Later.”

* * *

Roxy’s waiting for him in the backseat of a red sedan, cheek pressed to the window. The second that he slides into the seat, she turns to look at him. Dirk’s brushes her off, apologizing to the driver for taking too long, spouting off some bullshit excuse about leaving his wallet. The driver doesn’t give a shit though. He shrugs and turns up the music and that’s that. Conversation over.

Not that Dirk really wanted to talk to this greaseball, but he was sorta hoping for a distraction from—

“Dirk.”

_That._

“Rox,” he replies, clipped and curt. He doesn’t want to get into this.

“That was…”

Pathetic? He’s aware. Jesus, can’t she let him brood in peace? He knows she has a million questions and accusations, but the moment he stepped off of the porch, his John Crocker fantasy bubble popped. The blurry, rose-tinted romance filter lifted from his eyes, exposing the drab fucking dismal gray of his life.

“I know.”

“Oh, Dirk,” she sighs. He hates the way she says it, full of a pity he doesn’t deserve. “Seein’ you two together like that…”

“I know,” he repeats. He also knows that he looks exactly how he feels right now, too exhausted mask it. Crestfallen and humiliated by his own delusional yearning.

“And Jake—”

Dirk freezes.

“Jake is leaving me,” he bites out, harsher than he means to, but hearing Jake’s name stings like a slap to the face. He feels bad almost immediately; he hates raising his voice to her, hates opening his mouth only to hear his dead, deadbeat dad.

But if she notices the venom, she doesn’t mention it. “What?”

“Yeah. Don’t act like you’re surprised. We all saw this coming from a mile away.”

She doesn’t argue, and that shouldn’t hurt as bad as it does. She’d never tell him anything but the truth, and the fact that she remains silent only proves that he’s right. Can’t say nothin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all. He appreciates that about her.

He also appreciates that she doesn’t complain when he unlatches his seatbelt and scoots over the middle seat to rest his head in her lap. And he appreciates their driver not saying shit about it either. Dirk figures it’s probably a lot less uncomfortable to let a passenger disregard some safety laws than it is to deal with a grown man crying in the backseat.

Because that’s what’s happening right now. He’s crying. Reality has finally hit him like an arrow through the chest, puncturing what’s left of him with a mind-numbing precision.

It’s over.

* * *

Roxy pauses at the front door, key in hand, but doesn’t make to unlock it. Dirk can’t meet her eyes, even with his shades. He’s tried to break the habit of wearing them indoors, but right now he needs something to hide the red puffiness.

“I’ll be quick.”

Dirk nods.

“It’ll be alright.” She squeezes his wrist, a familial gesture meant to be reassuring. He wishes it worked. “If you need me for anything just call, okay? I promise that I’ll be home in a heartbeat, even if I gotta fake sick. Just say the word.”

He nods again.

It’d taken him a long time to convince her not to call off her shift altogether. Truth is, he doesn’t know what’s going to happen after this all goes down. He doesn’t know whether Jake will want to leave or stay. He doesn’t know how he’s going take this, _really_ take this, when it happens. Whether or not he’ll be numb to the inevitability of it all, or breakdown. Jake’s been the only constant in his life outside of Roxy, the only person he’s ever loved.

Ten years, officially. A decade of his life.

Roxy opens the door, and Dirk follows behind her, ready to piss it all away.

Jake’s in the living room, lounged back on the futon, ass-deep in a video game like nothing is amiss. He looks up when they walk in, smiling brightly, and the controller gets tossed to the side without him hitting pause. No point. He’s always sucked at first-person shooters.

He greets them with an enthusiastic, “Hey!”

“Hey,” Roxy says while Dirk busies himself with toeing off his shoes. “Sorry to ditch already, but I gotta hurry it up. Lotsa hungry peeps waiting!”

“Diner tonight?” Jake asks.

“Yep,” she calls, already halfway down the hall. Her door slams shut, echoing throughout the tiny apartment.

And then there were two.

“Dirk, I’m glad to see you.”

Dirk continues to lean against the wall, arms crossed, face taciturn. He refuses to look at Jake. He can’t. Holding it together is hard enough while occupying the same space. If he sees him—sees that smile, evidence that Jake doesn’t care nearly as much as he does—he’ll lose it.

“I reckon you’re still upset with me.”

Dirk grits his teeth, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “Can this wait until Rox leaves?”

“Oh. Sure thing.” He sounds surprised and that’s almost enough to make Dirk look over. Does Jake think that he wants an audience for this?

Together they lapse into an uncomfortable silence.

On the television, the game plays on; gunshots go off while the same couple lines of NPC dialogue repeat themselves in the background. Some generic version of Call of Duty, it looks like. The graphics are shit but Dirk catches himself zoning out, watching Jake’s pixelated avatar bounce idly up and down. It’s easier than thinking about Jake himself, five feet away, quiet from Dirk’s instruction.

The doomsday clock ticks on.

Roxy finally emerges, a blur of blue gingham as she makes her way toward the door. She stops long enough to tell them goodbye, prattling off something about being home later tonight. Jake asks her to bring him home a slice of pie, but she looks at Dirk when she answers. They’re both thinking the same thing.

Jake doesn’t plan on being the one to leave.

Dirk swallows hard. Well, looks like Crocker might be seeing him sooner rather than later. If he even wants to, that is. Probably not.

Roxy kisses his cheek, pressing a message in his flesh. It’s a rehash of earlier, telling him that if he needs her, she’ll be there. Then she leans over and blows a kiss to Jake, who catches it and winks, pretending to tuck it in his pocket. Dirk makes the mistake of watching it happen. It’s cute, and it’s tearing him apart.

And they’re alone. Again.

“Come sit with me, will you?” Jake pats the space next to him.

Part of Dirk wants to say no, to stubbornly stay posted against the wall. Part of him wants to leave. But he’s weak and does neither, choosing to quietly join Jake on the futon.

His apprehension goes unnoticed.

“Now, I know you’re upset with me and I’ll admit you have every right to be. I’ve been a giant, slobbering prick and, well. I suppose there’s been a few things on my mind. After our tiff, I went out to Griffin Park to clear my head. I did some thinking and—Dirk. Will you look at me?”

Dirk continues to stare at his hands, balled into fists in his lap. He’s shaking.

“Darling, come on.” If the endearment doesn’t kill him—and it damn near does—Jake’s knuckles brushing a strand of hair away from his face just might.

Dirk sucks in a sharp breath and turns, helpless to obey. In the end, it’s the look of genuine concern present on Jake’s lovely face that does the shattering. His chest feels heavy. He can't look at Jake without wanting to come apart, the voice in his head repeating _it's over, it's over, it's over._

“Just say it,” he manages to get out, a hair’s breadth away from cracking.

“I’d rather say it to your face, all things considered.”

“You’re looking at my face.” Dirk knows he means the shades, but he’s not ready to give them up. They’re a shield of pointy cheap plastic and he’s holding onto them like they’re a fuckin’ life raft.

Jake frowns, reaches out, and takes them off. Dirk lets him, folding like a cheap lawn chair. So much for resilience.

Without his shades, Dirk sits frozen, feeling vulnerable and naked. There’s no hiding the fact he’s been crying, or the fact that he’s about to start again. Instead, he stares somewhere past Jake’s shoulder, still unable to look him in the eye. He hopes this is good enough.

“Please,” Dirk whispers, “Jake, for once, stop pussyfootin’ around. Just say it, it’s not that hard. You don’t love me anymore.”

But it is hard. It’s so hard to say. Even harder to hear.

Jake takes in a quick breath. “What?”

Oh, fuck this. They’re not playing this game. Not tonight.

“You don’t love me anymore,” Dirk repeats. It comes out like a growl, every word pushed between gritted teeth. “Maybe you never did. I’ll be honest, man. I have no fucking clue.”

And when he turns his head fully to face Jake for the first time since walking in their shared apartment, he has to do a double-take.

Jake looks like there’s a dagger lodged in his side. His mouth hangs open in a pained gasp, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Completely wounded. “Is that what you think?”

“I—” Dirk pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. He backtracks. “I just said I don’t know.”

Which is the wrong thing to say.

“I’m trying to apologize here!” Jake runs a hand through his hair and, for a moment he just stares off to the side, a carousel of thoughts circling behind his eyes.

Dirk starts to question everything.

“You think that I’m leaving you,” Jake concludes. “That’s what you think this is.”

_Seriously?_

“What the fuck else am I supposed to think?” Dirk’s doing it again. Raising his voice. But the resentment has been building up inside him for so long, it’s not surprising. He boils over like a tea kettle. “You’ve been brushing me to the side for years, Jake. I have no idea where I stand with you. I don’t know if you love me, or if you hate me—”

Jake chokes out his name, a broken plea. Dirk ignores it. He’s not finished.

“Don’t act like you don’t feel the rift between us. It’s a goddamn canyon. I’ve been trying to bridge it; I’ve been trying to consider what you want for us but, I’m at a loss. I want to fix it. I just don't know how."

_I don't know if it's worth it anymore._

He breathes heavily, unable to tear his gaze away from the distress carved in Jake’s face. At first, he couldn’t even look at him and now he can’t stop. It’s fucked up feeling, how he gains a bit of satisfaction seeing it.

“So, tell me,” Dirk says, voice cracking. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

“I think,” Jake pauses, worrying his lip, “I think I want you to listen to what I have to say.”

“I’m listening.”

“Right, okay." He seems to steel himself, curling his fists in his lap as he takes a deep breath. "I’m afraid I can’t argue. You see, I’ve been having many of the same thoughts…about how I’m not trying hard enough. Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m trying at all. Contrary to your belief, Dirk, I don’t enjoy hurting you.”

Dirk snorts an unamused laugh. Doesn’t feel that way.

“We’ve been through a lot together, you and me. That canyon you mentioned, I know I’m the fool chipping it wider—and I know the things you want from me are the tools we’d need to build this hypothetical bridge, but I just don’t know if I have them handy.”

Great. DIY bridge metaphors to cushion the blow of the end to his long-term relationship.

Dirk tenses up, bracing himself for impact, because fuck a bridge. Looks like they’re just going to chuck the whole thing over the ledge.

Jake puts his hand on his knee, carefully stroking his thumb. “But I want to try harder.”

What?

Dirk blinks through the tears that welled without his permission. Everything suspends around him. Time. Space. He searches Jake’s face for some sign of a joke but finds nothing in place of earnest recognition. He wants to try. He wants to try _harder_. It barely computes to Dirk’s frazzled brain, like a poorly-wired circuit.

But even for all the relief he feels, the fact remains that they’ve been down this road before, and they always end up here.

And then he thinks of John, and how it felt to be with him. How the hurt in his chest had lifted in the hours they spent together. How he knows that he’s already crossed the emotional line in the sand when it comes to their relationship.

But that relationship isn’t real, he reminds himself. It’s a transaction.

Jake has been real since they were sixteen. And at eighteen, Jake had moved to the states for him; then again from Dirk’s hometown of Houston, all the way to Los Angeles, where they fought to survive and made it. They can fight through this too.

But the ache in his chest persists, an ache in the distinct shape of John Crocker.

“I love you,” Jake says, breaking the silence, pulling Dirk back to Earth. “I don’t say that enough.”

No. He doesn’t.

Dirk repeats the words back to him; they slip from his lips like the regurgitated dialogue still playing on the television. He feels dazed, stuck somewhere between relief and dread. This is what he wanted, isn’t it? He has no real future with John, he just likes the way it feels to be wanted. Jake wants him too. He's just said so.

This is what he'd wanted.

This is.

Jake kisses him.

This is what he wants.

* * *

Next to him, Jake sleeps soundly, nestling light snores into his ear.

It feels foreign to have him so close, to feel his arms wrapped around his middle while his chest presses warm and bare against his back. Dirk tells himself it feels good and that the hollow feeling in his gut is just a side-effect of the emotional whiplash.

Roxy had come home to them half-naked on the couch, just minutes after they’d slipped fresh bottoms back on. Jake was already asleep, wrapped around him, and Dirk knew she had questions. The only thing he offered was a silent shake of his head. Not now, it said. For once, he hadn't been able to read her emotion, and she left to the bedroom without a word.

So, when Dirk’s phone suddenly lights up the dark, he wrongfully assumes it’s her.

Crocker  
  
hey, you didn’t bring my tie back!

That's from a couple of hours ago.

i checked my calendar and i’m all clear this upcoming week. so, i guess you can return it next time! ;)

That one is a little more recent.

i hope you made it home okay!

Guilt claws at his throat.

sorry to blow your phone up like this. i was only kidding about the tie.  
i’m assuming you know that though and aren’t actually mad!  
jeez. you’re probably sleeping! i'll stop being an ass.  
good night! <3

Above the lines of text sits the picture from that morning, mocking him. He can't stand to look at it anymore and knows what he needs to do.

Because if Jake is willing to try, he's still responsible to do his part. He needs to give one hundred percent. Fixing this will take two hands, and he can’t do that if one’s still clinging to a desperate fantasy. He’s gotta let go.

Dirk deletes the picture alongside John’s number and tries not to disrupt Jake’s sleep when his shoulders begin to shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry. please don't hurt me.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so ya'll remember those "alcohol" and "unhealthy coping mechanisms" and "heavy themes" tags, right? they really come into play this chapter. i also added hurt/comfort. because. yeah. see the endnotes for a more detailed, spoilery warning.

It takes one week for John to stop texting.

The messages he sends aren’t invasive, or rude, or accusatory—even when Dirk doesn’t respond to a single one of them. They’re same as before, a collection of John's silly, stray thoughts. They’re the odd things he overhears while waiting in line for his coffee. They’re pictures of him smiling and giving a thumbs-up next to billboards featuring his face. Those are labeled _Johnception_ and Dirk has to delete them the quickest.

Only once does John ask if he’s done something wrong.

Dirk never blocks him, just keeps deleting and deleting and deleting, over and over. A masochistic part of his psyche enjoys seeing the familiar, unsaved number pop up on his screen. It feels like a personal punishment every time he leaves one unanswered, swiping it away into the cellular abyss. And when John takes the hint and stops messaging, Dirk thinks maybe then he can finally move on.

But it takes another week before the hollowness in his chest begins to dissipate.

* * *

Things with Jake get better.

They've reached a new peak, breaking the glass ceiling of their relationship. For the first time in ages, Jake’s words don’t feel like empty promises. He’s trying, really putting forth the effort, and he’s not doing too shabby. They’re spending more time together—which mostly involves Dirk watching movies _with_ him instead of stealing away to another room. They're talking. They're touching. They're reemerging themselves in the nostalgic honeymoon phase that’d ended years ago. 

And Dirk’s still checking his phone for new messages, telling himself he’s happy when there aren’t any.

“Don’t stop,” Jake says, though it’s more a disgruntled whine than it is words. He nudges his head against Dirk’s palm, sighing contently when fingers start working at his scalp again.

“Sorry,” Dirk mutters. He lays his phone facedown on the mattress. “Just checkin’ the time.”

Jake hums, focusing his attention back on the movie they’re watching. He’s like a fucking cat—head in Dirk’s lap, purring while he gets his head scratched, spoiled beyond measure. It’s a compromise. Jake lets Dirk take care of him like he wants to and, in exchange, Dirk sits through marathons of shitty movies. It’s a good deal on the surface, and that’s what relationships are, right? Compromises.

It doesn’t matter, not really. Dirk hasn’t paid attention to the screen in hours, it’s all white noise drifting in and out of his ears. He studies the back of Jake’s head as he rakes his fingers through his hair, massaging at his scalp. It wasn’t long ago that this privilege would've been revered as a blessing, counted as a goddamn miracle among miracles. He would've been ecstatic that Jake was close enough to touch, let alone stretched out on the futon, pressed against him.

But Dirk _hates_ that it feels forced; like they’ve each slotted themselves into a role they don’t quite belong in.

“Dirk.”

Dirk blinks back into focus, glancing down to find Jake watching him. He looks concerned, eyebrows drawn tight and mouth pulled down at the corner. Silently, he scans Dirk’s face for an answer to a question that hasn’t been asked.

Or maybe it was asked, and he just wasn’t paying attention.

“What?”

“Well. I was wondering what you wanted to do for dinner.” Jake’s frown deepens. “But you’ve been noodling off into space. Are you sure that you’re alright?”

“Wanna order a pizza?” Dirk asks. He doesn’t feel like cooking. He also doesn’t feel answering that last question or acknowledging that he’s been zoning out more than usual the past couple days.

Jake looks at him skeptically but seems to consider the proposal. Hard to turn down pizza. “Do we have the funds for that?”

Dirk shrugs. Not really. Paying off debts and catching up overdrafts does some damage to a guy’s pocketbook. And it’s fair to say he’s been slacking since his last deposit from John. His bank account is sorely missing it, and it won't be long until he has to start hanging around the block again. But, yeah. They can splurge on some pizza.

The skepticism doesn’t fade. They spend a good fifteen minutes arguing about toppings. Dirk’s a classic pepperoni guy. Jake wants the supreme. Dirk would rather bite off his tongue than eat a mushroom. Jake wants to know where his sense of adventure is. Dirk is pretty fuckin’ adamant that food shouldn’t be adventurous.

They settle for half-and-half, though Dirk refuses to order the anchovies because that shit will ruin the whole pie, bro. Plus, he’s fairly certain that Jake requested them out of spite. Dirk’s also fairly certain Jake doesn’t know what an anchovy is and, for that reason alone, tempted to order extra.

He doesn’t. He’s a nice boyfriend.

A _good_ boyfriend.

His stomach somersaults and an oil-slick voice in the back of his mind calls him a fraud.

* * *

“Knock, knock!” Roxy pokes her head through the crack in the door, grinning maniacally before busting through, pizza box in tow. “Did anyone order some ‘za?”

“Is _that_ how you’d enter the porno scene? Like a nineteen-eighties dudebro?”

She gives Dirk a flat, unamused look, kicking the door shut behind her. “Don’t pretend like that’s not totally what you’re into.”

“She may have a point,” Jake agrees.

Rude and mostly inaccurate, but he doesn’t feel like a playful argument. He’s too hungry and the scent of pepperoni has him in a trance, following Roxy into the kitchen like an old-school cartoon. Jake’s close on his heels and he scarfs down two slices of supreme before Dirk can finish one modest slice of pepperoni. Roxy takes one of each, but mostly just scrapes the toppings off directly into her mouth.

She tells them about her escapades in town, how she got sucked into two improv challenges by inspiring actors on the boulevard, and then had to fill out little cards with comments on their performances for their acting coaches. She’s lived in the city long enough to know how to avoid that shit, but Dirk’s pretty sure she enjoys it, that it's genuinely entertaining for her inner social-butterfly.

In turn, Jake tells her about the movie they watched, recounting it in lurid detail. It’s the typical long-winded, bizarro Jake English director’s commentary. Roxy genuinely enjoys that too. And it’s not that Dirk doesn’t, but he’d been present for the original showing. He lets himself zone out, mind wandering to other things. Important things.

When does he need to pick up work again?

Or should he just quit the street scene altogether?

What if—

Roxy nudges him in the side. “What about you? You got any hot gossip?”

Oh. It’s his turn for dinner show-and-tell.

“Uh.” Dirk racks his brain, combing through the recent archives and, yeah. He’s got nothing. The past few weeks have consisted mostly of being a sad sack, catering to Jake’s every whim and fancy in a pathetic attempt to keep him interested…but somehow that doesn’t feel like appropriate dinner conversation.

Instead, he shrugs. “Nah. Not really.”

Roxy frowns and he takes a giant bite of pizza to excuse himself from continuing the conversation. She’s been on edge with him ever since the night she came home to the aftermath of his and Jake’s reconciliation. He can’t forget the way she looked at him in the hallway, it’s burned into the back of his skull. He’s still not sure what it meant.

A matter he's only made worse by actively avoiding being alone with her.

It’s been pretty easy to manage, Jake has rarely left his side, and he's even started allowing Dirk to stick around for his live shows again, as long as he stays out of frame. A two for one deal as far as Dirk’s concerned. Roxy ain’t touchin’ that setup with a ten-foot pole, _and_ he gets to watch Jake does his cam stuff. He wouldn’t say he has a voyeurism kink, but he’s not _not_ saying it.

Point is, he hasn’t been alone with Roxy since and doesn’t plan to be.

But he forgets that the universe is holding a perpetual grudge against him, and he arely gets what he wants. Jake announces he’s going to shower because he’s covered in pizza grease and there’s a fair amount of marinara on his shirt, and Roxy snatches Dirk’s arm before he can follow.

Just like that, her cheeky demeanor drops.

Shit.

She at least has the decency to wait until the pipes start clanking and the water kicks on before she digs in.

“You and Jake seem to be doin’ better,” she says, pleasant enough. “What the hell happened there?”

Ah, that’s…less pleasant.

“I was wrong.” He shrugs. That doesn't pacify her. “I don’t know what you want me to say. He wants to try and work it out. Rox, he admitted that he’s at fault too. That’s huge. He’s _never_ done that, and I can’t. I can’t turn that down.”

For a long time, Roxy doesn’t say anything. She stares at the peeling laminate, chewing her lip, tapping her foot. He knows she’s trying to figure out how to word what she wants to say as delicately as possible.

He sorta wishes she wouldn’t.

“Go ahead,” he says, “I can take it. Be the battering ram.”

“Fine. I’m sick of seeing you hurt each other.” Her words are quick. Brutal. “You’ve been here before but, oh my god, it’s like you both forget every time! I just want ya’ll to be happy...”

There’s a “but” left unspoken, looming in the air.

“We _are_ happy,” Dirk says. His tongue feels heavy, weighed down with the lie. One look at Roxy tells him that she doesn’t buy it. “We’re…working on it.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay?”

“Okay. You’re a big boy, D-Stri. If you think this is what’s best for you _and_ Jake…I’m not gonna argue.”

He doesn’t miss the insinuation—that maybe, once again, he’s thinking of himself and what _he_ wants rather than Jake. But the truth is, he doesn’t know _what_ he’s doing or _who_ he’s doing it for anymore. Most of the time, it feels like he’s following a script written in a dead language, and he can’t crack the fucking cipher.

“Thanks.”

“Have you heard from John?”

Dirk tries not to physically wince, despite it feeling like a blade has just been shoved between his ribs. Every unanswered message runs through his head at once.

“No,” he says.

“Me either. I’ve been worried about him. It’s his—”

“Cheese and fucking crackers, Dirk!” Jake’s voice carries from the living room into the kitchen, echoing loud enough that they both jump.

When did he get out of the shower? And what the _hell_ is he talking about? Dirk looks to Roxy, but she appears just as perplexed. Jake pads into the kitchen, barefoot with only a towel slung around his waist, staring down at the phone in his hand.

A phone with a bright orange case.

Dirk’s phone.

His heart stops. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry! I’m not trying to be nosy,” Jake says, even though his nose is glued to a device that doesn’t belong to him. “It seems you’ve got a fan!”

In the reflection of Jake's glasses, he sees a wall of blue text. Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Hey, let me see that—”

“Oh!” Jake startles. He finally lifts his eyes, mouth poised in a perfect o-shape. He shows Dirk the screen.

(323) 413-5646 is calling…

“Uhm. I believe they’re trying to call you now.”

Oh, shit. John’s never tried to call him before. Dirk reaches out with shaky hands and snatches the phone away, staring while it vibrates in his palm. Over and over. The second it stops, it starts back up again, and in that small timeframe between calls, Dirk sees how many missed messages he has. Twenty-three.

“Dirk,” Roxy says. She knows, he can tell by her tone. “Are you gonna answer that?”

“I’m,” He swallows the rest of his words, frozen in a state of indecision. John calls consecutively for the third time.

Something is wrong.

He shoulders his way out of the kitchen and doesn’t stop until he’s in the bathroom with the door shut, sliding down against it. He waits until John calls back before he answers. It doesn’t long, coming in a mere five seconds after the last one ends.

He answers but doesn’t speak. Waiting.

Waiting for...

“H-hello?” John says, and Dirk squeezes his eyes shut. Hearing his voice hurts so much more than he thought it would. “Dirk are you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Diiiiirk! There you are!”

Oh.

“You’re drunk," Dirk says. It’s not a question. John’s slurring his words far more than he’s annunciating them. His giggles are muffled like he’s got the entire receiver in his mouth.

“I didn’t think you’d answer.” Hiccup. “But I’m sooooo glad that you did! Do you have any—uh, shit. Hold on. Do you have any sugar?”

“What?”

“Sugar, Dirk. Do you have any?”

For some fucking reason, Dirk mentally scans his pantry. Did they have sugar last time he made a pot of coffee?

“Yeah,” he says. “I think so.”

John laughs because apparently this is comedy gold. “Yeah, ‘cause you’re so sweet!”

“Uh.”

“Wait, wait. Come give me some?”

Dirk pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. “What the fuck?”

“I said—”

“No, I heard you. John. You scared the fuck outta me. I thought something wrong.”

“Something _is_ wrong,” he whines. Another hiccup. “Baking a cake is hard. It’s _so_ hard—I can’t find my sugar!”

Wait.

Dirk takes a moment to blink up at the ceiling. The whole ordeal is a hell of a lot to process. Did John really drunk dial him to legitimately ask to borrow some sugar? Or was it just a clumsy segue into an even clumsier flirtation?

Or, god fuckin’ forbid, is he really trying to bake a cake?

“Tell me you aren’t trying to bake a cake,” Dirk hisses through his clenched teeth. The last thing he needs is for Roxy or Jake to eavesdrop on whatever the hell this conversation is.

“Okay! I’m not trying to back a cake.” John giggle-snorts.

Oh, holy shit. Does he turn into a child when he’s drunk? Dirk thinks back to the hotel, the night they first met. He’d been giddy and enthusiastic but not to this caliber. He must really be off the deep end, and if that blatant lie was anything to go by, he’s one hundred percent trying to bake a goddamn cake.

“Is someone there with you?”

“Nope.” He pops the p. “Just me.”

“Don’t touch the fuckin’ oven, man,” Dirk instructs, exasperated. He thumps his head against the door a couple of times for good measure. John is going to burn his stupid mansion down and get himself killed over…a cake?

No.

Not over a cake.

Dirk’s stomach turns, bile rising to the back of his throat. John’s three sheets to the wind, and he’s got a pretty big hunch as to why. This, like so many other things, is his fault. This is _his_ responsibility. Can he live with himself if the nation’s beloved John Crocker dies in a house fire due to his impertinence? No. He can barely live with himself knowing that he’s hurt John's feelings.

He has to fix it. 

Dirk pitches his voice an octave lower, keeping it low and sultry. “Hey,” he purrs. "Did you want some company?”

John goes quiet on the other end. Shit. Did he just fuck up? Maybe suggesting they get together after weeks of flat out ignoring him without an explanation wasn’t the best idea. Sort of a dick move. But, Jesus Christ, he needs to make sure John doesn’t hurt himself. He’ll show up anyway, and if he gets pissed—

A notification message pings in his ear. It’s from Venmo. John's wired him half a grand.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he hums. “Get over here, Mr. Strider.”

Every nerve ending in Dirk’s body lights up with anticipation and anxiety. He shouldn’t be doing this, but John needs him. Well. John needs someone, and the least he can do is make sure that someone isn’t a paramedic.

“Yeah. See you soon.” He hangs up before John say anything else.

Okay. Deep breaths. He can do this.

Requesting a Lyft takes all of twenty seconds. Dirk spends a few minutes composing himself before standing up and doing a once-over in the mirror. Splashes his face with water. Runs his fingers through his hair. Pats his cheeks to return some color. He debates changing out of his sweatpants and tank but—no. He’s no stranger to corralling a drunk body into bed for their own good, comfort is key when heavy lifting is involved.

In the kitchen, Jake and Roxy stand close together, heads bowed as they talk in hushed whispers. He tries not to let it get to him.

“Everything alright?” Jake narrows his eyes at the phone slack in Dirk’s hand. “I don’t want to jump the gun, but that seemed like an emergency.”

Roxy's glare pierces a hole through him. Silent.

“Something like that.” He can’t handle the way they’re looking at him. It’s like there’s a goddamn stage light overhead and they’re waiting for him to dance. “I need to head out for a bit.”

“Client of yours?”

Shit. He never presses this much.

“Yeah.” And then because Jake’s a fan and it might help his case, Dirk adds, “Crocker.”

Roxy’s face hardens. He can tell she’s biting her tongue. She’s a disgruntled, stark contrast next to Jake, who beams at the mention of John’s name. It serves as a bitter visual, aiding the truth. Only one of them knows the complexity of the situation…and it’s not his boyfriend.

* * *

Dirk texts John the make and model of rideshare and John texts back the gate code. Okay. Easy fuckin’ bypass, no more getting buzzed in. As much as Dirk doesn’t want to feel special over it, he also sincerely hopes this isn’t a common thing that John does. He can’t just trust anyone to waltz up to his million-dollar home with good intentions. If so, his self-preservation skills are sorely lacking.

It takes two solid knocks before John opens the door. He looks at Dirk like he’s a ghost. Dirk looks at him like he’s a mess.

Which. He is.

There’s a white smudge of flour on his cheek and nose. Or he hopes it’s flour and John didn’t seriously snort a line while drunk off his ass. It’s gotta be though because that’s definitely the same substance covering the front of his shirt, handprinted all down the side of his dark jeans. So, unless he’s got a Scarface-sized mountain of cocaine somewhere, he's innocent. 

John pulls him over the threshold before he finishes his appraisal.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he mutters, gaze starry-eyed. “Thought you were mad at me.”

Dirk takes John’s weight when it’s leaned against him, doing his best to keep them both upright. “Nah. But if you crush me, I might reconsider. C’mon, man. Can you stand?”

John pulls back, stumbling but standing. He takes Dirk’s hand and tugs him out of the foyer, toward what he can only assume is the kitchen. They’re definitely following the scented trail of batter, and it's then that he notices how sticky John's hards are.

Nothing seems to be burning. Yet.

The kitchen _is_ destroyed though, a battlefield of flour and eggs covering stainless steel appliances. There’s a bowl upturned on the floor, a gooey substance easing out from under the rim. There’s literal spilled milk in a puddle on the counter, dripping off the ledge. A cracked egg on the white wall. It's the scene of a one-man food fight.

And pressed against his side, laughing into his shoulder, is the culprit.

“Sit down,” Dirk instructs, easing John onto one of the kitchen island barstools. He plops down, immediately pressing his red face against the cool granite. “There you go. Cups?”

John navigates him with lazy gestures of his hands, hiccupping instead of talking. Dirk moves awkwardly around the kitchen, stepping over trash and puddles and—broken glass? He quickly discovers that John’s directions are useless and mostly nonsense. After some trial-and-error, Dirk finds the cabinet of dishware on his own, swiping a cup and filling it straight from the tap. He slides it to John like an old-fashion bartender and tells him to drink, to which John stubbornly shakes his head in defiance.

“Sorry, bro. Not a request. Drink up.”

John makes a mediocre attempt to raise his head but ultimately lets his cheek smash back against the countertop with a grunt. He stays silent, eyes open in a glassy, vacant stare.

“Hey,” Dirk says, snapping his fingers. There’s a hint of focus John’s eyes, just a flash before it’s gone again. “Shit.”

This is worse than he thought, but nothing he can’t handle. Dirk moves behind the stool, carefully peeling John from the granite to lean him back against his chest. Head lolling like a ragdoll, John lets out a pained groan, sucking his chapped bottom lip between his teeth. He’s trying to shy away from the harsh fluorescent lights and given his current state, Dirk can assume his head is pounding.

He holds John’s chin steady, reaching around to grab the glass of water, holding it to his chapped lips. “I need you to drink. Dehydration is a bitch. C’mon, this will make you feel better.”

That seems to work. Dirk tilts the glass and John’s lips part to weakly swallow around the rim. Water spills down his chin, seeping from the corner of his mouth and covering his shirt. It's a nightmare of a mess, but he slowly starts to chug. Dirk pulls away gently when John's had enough, checking to make sure that his gasps don’t turn into chokes.

“Thanks,” John whispers, voice hoarse. He closes his eyes, melting against Dirk.

From here, Dirk has a better vantage point to watch the rise and fall of his chest, up and down beneath his soiled shirt. John's breathing. He's alive. He's okay.

“What have you been drinking?”

John shrugs. “Vodka?”

He doesn’t sound sure, so Dirk leans down and sniffs, getting a pungent whiff of rubbing alcohol. Yeah, that’s vodka alright. Doesn’t matter how expensive it is, that shit always smells like it’ll strip the paint off a car.

"Okay." Dirk pats his arm, jostling him upright. “Shower time.”

The bathroom he’d changed in the last—and only—time he’d visited had a shower, albeit a pretty mediocre one given the rest of the house. Nicer than his, so he won’t complain.

But...John. He complains.

He complains the entire way to the bathroom, refusing to pick his feet up properly so that Dirk has to drag him. By the time they’re stumbling through the door, Dirk’s debating the pros and cons of cleaning him off with toilet water.

“Can you manage to undress?” One look at John tells him the answer is no. He sways on his feet, grappling for the counter and missing. It’s thanks to Dirk’s elbow on his arm, guiding him up, that he doesn’t fall flat on his face. “Alright, big guy. Let’s get this off.”

John grins, slow and lopsided. “You jus’ wanna see me naked.”

“That’s it,” Dirk deadpans.

He pulls at the hem of John’s shirt, tugging it over his head without a fight. For a few moments, his drunk arms get caught in the sleeves, cotton pulled over his eyes, and Dirk allows himself to get an eyeful of what he’s been missing—because John’s not entirely wrong. He does want to see him naked, just not under these circumstances.

He ogles a lot less when it comes to taking off John’s pants. Crouched down on his knees, fingers at the button of his fly, tugging down the zipper—it’s some treacherous fuckin’ water he’s wading in. Because with John above him, braced on the counter, looking down with his lip between his teeth while he tugs his jeans down does nothing but light a shameful flame in his gut. In another world, another timeline, where John wasn’t piss-drunk and Dirk wasn’t trying to work things out with his estranged boyfriend, he’d be on his knees for something a lot less poignant.

And that’s why he leaves John’s boxers on, despite the displeased groan above his head.

Dirk stands, knees popping. “Alright. Just stand here while I get the shower running, can you do that?” An annoyed nod. “Good. Don’t fuckin’ move.”

There’s no way he’s not going to get sprayed to hell and back during this endeavor; he’ll ride home commando, but not uncomfortable and damp. Dirk strips down to his underwear, pointedly ignoring John’s hum of appreciation.

The shower works pretty much like all showers work. Turn this knob for hot, this knob for cold. He tries to find a healthy middle ground, something lukewarm. Figuring out a good temperature is complicated. Too cold, it might send John's body into shock. Too hot, it might make the dehydration worse. Showers aren’t ideal when you’re drunk, but goddamn John is sticky. He’s covered in cake batter and dried egg and sugar. Dirk can’t, with a good conscience, put him to bed like that.

Just when the water starts to hit a happy medium, Dirk hears the slamming of the medicine cabinet, followed by a clattering against the countertop. He turns, glare sharpened. “What the fuck did I—”

John is tilting his head back, tossing something into his open mouth. In his hand, an orange pill bottle.

Dirk’s on him in an instant, defying all laws of physics with how quick he moves. He grabs John by the cheeks, squeezing hard enough that it forces him to open his mouth. Sitting on his tongue are oblong, blue pills that he’s willing to bet aren’t ibuprofen.

“Spit ‘em out.”

John looks at him, wide-eyed and fearful, and Dirk’s not sure whether not he’s going to obey or swallow them in a panic. He takes matters into his own hands before it can escalate, keeping a firm grip on John’s jaw while he digs into his mouth. He scoops them out, ignoring the sound of choked gags, and doesn’t stop until they're all in his possession and John’s wrenching away, wiping the dribble of spit from his chin.

Dirk counts four.

“I’m going to guess this is more than the recommended dosage.” With no hesitation, Dirk drops them in the toilet and flushes them down. “Did you swallow any?”

John doesn’t say anything, hunched over, holding his middle. Meekly, he shakes his head.

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

“I need to call poison control if you did.”

“I didn’t.”

Dirk eyes him suspiciously, snatching up the abandoned pill bottle from the counter. He should probably call poison control anyway. What did he even…

“Restoril,” Dirk reads from the label. It takes a moment for that to process and when it does, the floor drops from beneath his feet. “John. This could have killed you.”

“I take them all the time,” John says, defensive. “I’m prescribed it.”

“Not when you have more vodka than water in your blood, Jesus Christ.”

“They help me sleep!”

“I know what a sleeping pill does,” Dirk snaps. His fist clenches around the container. He’s shaking, worse than John, unable to pin-point what’s upsetting him the most. John’s complete lack of regard or his tired, obvious resign.

This isn’t a fight to be had now, not when he's this impossible to communicate with. Yelling isn't going to do anything but upset them both.

And the shower’s still running.

“C’mon,” Dirk says, changing the subject and softening his tone. He places the bottle on the counter and reaches up to pull John’s glasses off. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Dirk walks them backward, climbing in first and moving to the far side, away from the showerhead. John follows, stepping in without protest, but the first spray of water against his back has him hissing, pressing himself against Dirk to escape it.

“Cold,” he whines.

“It ain’t that bad.” Dirk pushes John back under the stream, keeping hands on his shoulders to hold him in place. Water beats down over his head, wetting his hair and plastering it to his forehead. “See?”

John groans and spits out the water that collects in his mouth. But he doesn’t complain when Dirk sets to work, scrubbing the dried batter off his skin, the bits of egg from his chest hair. He’d been wearing a shirt, so Dirk’s puzzled as to how that one even happened. Whatever. A mystery that doesn’t need solving.

Half-way through the wash, John gets restless. He squirms, grabbing ahold of whatever part of Dirk is in his reach. His hip. His arm. His neck. Dirk ignores them all with acute precision, focused on his task. Because for the first time in his life, he’s not in the shower with another person to get frisky.

John’s attempts are mostly clumsy and easy to brush away without verbal acknowledgment. It’s better that way. Saves them both the embarrassment of rejection. But when John’s soapy fingers find and tug at the silver bar through his nipple—

“Hey.” Dirk freezes, fixing him with a harsh stare. “Stop it.”

“Fine.”

“I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“Or ever again,” he whispers. It’s not an accusation. “Are you?”

Dirk keeps his head down. He’s almost done. He can get John in some fresh clothes and lay him on his stomach, put him to bed, and wipe his hands clean of this mess. Maybe send in an anonymous tip that the dude needs some serious fucking rehab. At least some help that’s not a washed-up prostitute with a highly specific skill-set that includes blowjobs and taking care of drunks.

But he owes John an apology, if not an explanation.

“Look,” Dirk sighs, turning John around to scrub the rag over his back. It doesn’t need his attention, but it saves him from having to witness the disappointment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen but, I’ll be honest, didn’t really see it affecting you like this either.”

John doesn’t say anything in response, barely even moves. Dirk continues to scrub.

“I’m a nobody,” he discloses with a painful laugh. It hurts, but it’s the truth. In the grand scope of John’s world, he’s nothing. “You aren’t missing much.”

Dirk’s admission ushers in a long stretch of silence, and when John finally speaks, it’s with more clarity than he’s expressed all night.

“Today is my dad’s birthday.”

That’s… _what?_

“What?”

“He would have been fifty-six.”

The casual delivery throws Dirk off. John’s voice is monotone and distant, but steady. It’s hard for him to wrap around what it is that John’s feeling. Sadness? Remorse? Indifference? He doesn’t have a great frame of reference for the subject.

It’s not until Dirk spins him back around that he gets his answer, written all over John's face. The mask is off, stripped away like his clothes, his sobriety. There's no hiding behind stupid jokes and bright smiles. He's fucking miserable.

"Hey—"

John crumples against him, slippery and wet, and there’s not enough darkness in Dirk’s heart to turn him away. Suddenly, a lot of things make sense. John calling him, pandering for a distraction. The copious amounts of alcohol. The _cake._

Holy shit, the cake.

Dirk slides a hand into John’s hair, cradling him close, keeping his nose pressed to the soft juncture of his neck. John’s not crying, but sucking in deep, gasping breaths that rattle his body on every exhale. There, beneath the lukewarm spray of water, he unravels in Dirk's arms. 

And Dirk can't do anything but hold him, lost for words, tripping on condolences. This isn't his area of expertise. None of this is. He'd been prepared to face the music, accepting that he'd been responsible for John's downward spiral. But. This had never been about him. Why had he thought that? That’d been a stupidly selfish assumption, one that he’ll berate himself for later. Right now, his heart is too busy breaking for John, who'd just wanted to bake his dad a cake.

They stand under the water until it becomes cold and John’s shakes turn to shivers. Dirk helps to towel him off, keeping his voice soft and his touch light as he guides him from the bathroom. John navigates the rest of the way. He’s not sober by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s able to walk mostly on his own, only stumbling here and there. Quieter than Dirk’s ever seen him.

The room John leads them to is big and spacious, with sleek modern furniture that matches the rest of his house. Up against the wall, there’s a large four-post canopy bed with draping curtains of a sheer navy that match the sheets and comforter. The rest is a continuation of shit you’d normally find in a bedroom. Dresser. Drawers. A vanity. Because that’s where they are. John’s bedroom.

Okay. He takes a deep breath. Time to do this.

“Where’s your closet?” Dirk asks. John points to one set of double doors on the far wall. “Alright. Hold tight.”

The walk-in closet is bigger than the living room Dirk sleeps in, lined in suits and shoes for every occasion. A few he can’t think of an occasion for at all. Who the fuck needs a lime green suit? He rummages around until he finds the normal clothes, tee-shirts and gym shorts, the…lime green boxers? How does one person own so many lime green articles of clothes? Whatever. He snags them and a white crewneck.

When he resurfaces from Narnia, John’s sitting on the edge of the bed in his soaked underwear.

“Up.” Dirk snaps his fingers, happy when John complies without a fuss and hands him the fresh clothing. “You got this, or…?”

“I got it.”

“Good.” He’s not really sure he could handle the task of dressing him. He turns around to be polite. “Let me know when you’re ready to be tucked in.”

“Tucked into what?” John asks. “My pants?”

Dirk’s glad he’s got his back to him, hiding the way his lip curls. “Yeah, man. I’m dying to tuck your flaccid cock into your boxers." 

"Uhm."

Looks like he's too far gone for their usual banter. Noted.

"No, John. Into bed.”

“Oh.” There's a beat of silence, followed by some grunts and mumbling that sounds suspiciously like expletives directed toward him. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Dirk turns back around, relieved to find John’s successfully dressed, and that his boxers aren’t on his head or some equally ridiculous shit of that nature. He looks at the bed expectantly, waiting for John to get in.

He doesn’t budge.

“Gotta lay down for me to tuck you in.”

“You aren’t changing?” John frowns. “You’ll get my sheets wet.”

“I’m—” Dirk stops himself from admitting that he had no intention of getting into bed with him. That feels like a low blow. “I left my clothes downstairs.”

“I have some.”

Right. He knows that. Guess he's doing this. 

Reluctantly, Dirk returns to the closet, stripping off his damp boxers and snatching the only pair of athletic shorts with a drawstring. Even though they’re about the same height, John’s got some girth on him, and he has to pull them tight with a double knot before they’ll stay up. Not his proudest moment. He comes out, feeling scrawny a tad bit insecure, to find John back on the bed, laying facedown against the mattress. Good. Before he joins him, Dirk finds a waste can and drags it over.

“In case you get sick,” he explains when John looks at him funny. 

“I’m okay.”

_Stubborn._

He’s not okay, not even a little bit. Despite the dark, Dirk can see how pale he is, the way his cheeks puff around his eyes, focus bleary and distant. It won’t be long until that wave of nausea hits him. Big time. The least Dirk can do is be there for him and help him through it.

He gets into bed, carefully crawling over John, positioning himself at his side. This isn’t where he meant to end up, but he can’t lie to himself. He's done enough of that.

The truth is—no one twisted his arm to get him here. He’s got a will of fortified fuckin’ military-grade steel…right up until John’s in the picture. Then he cracks and crumbles, relinquishing all manner of logical thought.

It’s a problem, one that he'll deal with later.

For now, John needs someone, and that someone is him. He’s hurting deeply, broken into fragments far worse than he’s letting on. It’s hard for Dirk to watch, and even harder to accept that this isn’t a pain he can relate to. Not on this level. His dad passed years after Dirk had left for California, a stunt that'd been the final sever in their already tedious relationship. Dirk hadn't flown back to Houston for the funeral—and most days he doesn’t even regret it.

So, no. He doesn’t understand this particular brand of hurt that John's experiencing, but he’s willing to try.

Dirk places his hand on John’s back, rubbing slow, soothing circles into his skin. “Tell me about your dad. What was he like?”

He’d meant for it to be a cathartic exercise, a chance for John to relive happy memories. Instead, he tenses up beneath Dirk’s palm.

Shit. Time to backtrack.

“You don’t have to—”

“No, no, no.” John’s voice still slurs lightly; like he’s dragging his words through molasses. “Sorry, it’s just…I don’t think anyone’s ever asked about my dad before.”

"Well. I'm asking."

“He was great, the best dad, and no one ever asks about him,” John says with growing distress. “Everyone wants to talk about my mom. They mourn her and praise her and set up little shrines on Hollywood Boulevard for her birthday and—Dirk? She was a fucking _monster._ ”

Dirk stills. He hadn’t been expecting that intimate of a confession. It feels like something he shouldn’t be hearing, the kind of shit the paparazzi would trade their firstborn for, but he can’t stop John before he continues.

“She was horrible. She wanted to—she wanted to mold me into her puppet. All she cared about was her stupid fucking legacy. Do you know what my dad cared about? Me. He taught me to play the piano and played catch, and he baked me cakes on my birthday.”

John rolls from his stomach to his side to face Dirk, glasses knocked askew, barely covering his watery eyes. He looks a mess and Dirk’s heart breaks for him all over again.

“He was the best,” John says in a hoarse whisper. “He was the best and now he’s dead and nobody cares but me.”

It’s disconcerting how small he sounds, how childish. Not in a petulant or spoiled way, but like a boy missing his father. Flayed open for Dirk to see, the most private pieces of himself exposed in a manner that doesn’t come naturally to him. It’s evident in the way he stutters, eyes going wide like he’s only now realizing what he’s implied. What he’s _done._

Dirk asks more questions, trying to distract him before he can panic. He asks for specifics, for stories, and though he's hesitant at first, John indulges him.

He tells Dirk about the time he scraped his knee, falling off a pogo ride. He tells Dirk about prank wars, about awkward talks, about misunderstandings. He tells Dirk happy memory after happy memory until his words slur with sleep more than alcohol, and Dirk locks each in a box for safe-keeping. 

When light snores fill the space between them, Dirk slips from the bed. John doesn’t stir as Dirk moves around the room, picking up the still-drying boxers from the floor, or when he opens the door, to carefully shut it behind him. In the bathroom, he drapes their damp clothes over the tub to dry, picking up his own pile of laundry on the way out. He folds it, placing them on the entry table in the foyer. The pictures are still face down, just how he’d watched John position them the last time he was here.

Dirk flips the one of John and his father upright, leaving the one of his mother as is.

The kitchen is a mess, exactly as they’d left it. Damn. No secret butlers then. Alright, that’s fine. Nothing a little TLC won’t fix. Dirk rolls up his metaphorical sleeves and gets to work. He sweeps up shards of glass, wipes up batter, picks eggshell from the tile grout. He washes the dishes, the counters, the stove. He scrubs until there’s not an inch of sparkling surface he wouldn’t eat off of.

He’s impressed with himself, satisfied even, but something still feels like it's missing.

Dirk Strider has never baked a cake in his entire goddamn life but that’s not going to stop him. He pulls up the most basic ass recipe he can find on google and follows it step-by-step and comes to one startling conclusion.

John was right.

This is so fucking hard.

* * *

When he crawls back into bed hours later, it’s with the knowledge that he’s left the ugliest abomination in existence on John's kitchen counter. It ain’t a pretty cake, not even ugly in a charming way. Lumpy and misshapen, half caved in. But hopefully, the sentiment is still there.

John, none the wiser, curls himself around Dirk’s back, mumbling something unintelligible.

"Hm?"

“Missed you," John repeats. This time there's no mistaking it.

Oh. Dirk swallows and tells himself John won't remember this in the morning. That he can allow himself the confession, so long as it’s forgotten.

“I missed you too.”

“You left.”

“Had to take care of some things," Dirk tells him. 

“Where were you?”

It doesn’t feel like they’re talking about Dirk’s brief stint to the kitchen anymore. In fact, he knows they aren’t. John holds him tighter; like he’s afraid to let go; like he’s afraid that Dirk might leave him again.

And the truth is, he will. They both know it.

In the morning, after John’s sobered up, he’s going to give him the least of what he deserves. A proper explanation for his absence, and a proper goodbye. But until then...

_He can allow himself the confession, so long as it’s forgotten._

“Doesn’t matter,” Dirk says. He puts his hand over John’s where it lays warm against his stomach. “I’m here now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first: john is not attempting suicide in the pill scene, or really even considering it. he's just very drunk and not thinking clearly. he's just being careless, not thinking about the serious repercussions of his actions. not that this makes it any less of a self-harm tactic, or any less dangerous or serious. but taking the pills was not a suicide attempt.
> 
> second: if someone _swallows_ pills and you suspect overdose, do not induce vomiting! call for professional medical help. 
> 
> third: pls drink responsibly. seek help if you need it.
> 
> AND LASTLY, PLEASE GO LOOK AT THE AMAZING ART BY @quadrantstuck ON INSTA IN CHAPTER SIX!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! thank you so much for being so patient with me! for those of you that don't know, i had some pretty big irl issues that had to be taken care of--one being that i had to move on short notice! but i'm all settled in my new place now and, hopefully, i'll be able to get into a writing groove again! i appreciate each of you! 
> 
> (ps. there will probably be some typos in this. i'll comb them out over the next couple of days as quickly as i can. i just really want to get this new chapter out because i feel so guilty.)

There isn’t a repeat of the last time. Dirk doesn’t allow it. When he wakes, he doesn’t mistake the heat at his back for anything other than what it is, or who it belongs to.

John presses against him, rubbing his nose along the nape of his neck. Sleepy, yet congenial.

A little _too_ congenial.

John isn’t hard, but he’s grinding against him like he is—trying to get there, maybe. Kissing every place his lips can touch, snaking his hands around to frame Dirk’s ribcage, dragging his warm palms up his torso, over his chest, and back down again. Dirk lets himself fall for it, still on the cusp of sleep, too drowsy to fight the pleasant feeling.

“You stayed,” John purrs against the shell of his ear. “Thought you’d be gone by now.”

Dirk wants to tell him that he thought correctly. That he didn’t mean to stay this long; planned to split before the sun rose and before John had a chance to open those baby blues. But wandering fingers find the bar through his nipple, and all thoughts are lost. John tugs on it playfully, gasping when Dirk arches back on instinct, repeating the action again, and again. Dirk's breath goes ragged, skin tingling. He wants more and he hates himself for it.

“John,” he bites. It's meant to be a warning, but it comes out as a helpless and breathy encouragement. Fuck. He can’t concentrate when John’s toying with him like this. “John—for fuck’s sake.”

“You took care of me,” John murmurs against his neck, planting soft kisses to sensitive skin. It alights Dirk’s entire body on fire—John's lips, the way he sounds so incredulous; as if no one has ever made the attempt before. That’s bullshit but, fuck. It makes him feel. No adjective. It just makes him _feel_.

“Sorta had to, man.”

He should be stopping this. He should be stopping John’s fingers from rolling the jewelry in his nipple; stopping John’s hand from sliding down his stomach, skating close to his waistband; stopping his own urge to squirm and whine for it.

John kisses Dirk’s neck again, this time filthy and wet and full of intent, tracing his tongue along the tendon there. His hand slips past the threshold of cotton.

“Let me take care of you now,” he whispers.

Oh, fuuuuuuuck.

It’d be so easy to give himself over. Nothing is hard when it comes to John, not even—Dirk rocks back, rubbing his ass against John’s dick like a goddamn cat in heat. Yeah. Still not hard. Good. This will be a lot simpler if only one of them has a boner. He can handle being the unlucky bastard.

“Wait—hhhh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

John’s hand wraps around his cock, squeezing all coherent thought from him, reducing him to babble. He reaches back, slapping his hand against John’s leg, gripping him tight enough to bruise. A feeble attempt to anchor himself.

“Let me take care of you,” John repeats as he starts to move, fist pumping up and down, up and down—until he’s successfully wrung a high-pitched whine from Dirk’s throat. “C’mon.”

 _Let him take care of you_ , repeats in Dirk’s head over and over like a forbidden litany, trying to convince himself.

_Let him take care of you._

He’s usually on the opposite end of this equation. Taking care of his dad. Taking care of clients. Taking care of Jake. Sometimes even taking care of Roxy. Rarely, if ever, taking care of himself. It feels selfish to allow this to happen but holy shit, it feels so good to have John’s hands on him. To have a mouth speaking tender praises against his skin, trading words for kisses when it all starts to be too much. Dirk digs his fingers into the supple flesh of John’s thigh and moans for it like the whore he is.

It’s intimate in a way he’s not fully prepared for. Not after last night. They’re both too vulnerable and exposed and, and—

If John doesn’t stop, he’s going to fucking come and that’s going to make the pending conversation that much more awkward. He needs something foolproof to stop this steam engine dead on its very hot tracks.

“You haven’t paid for this,” Dirk manages to get out between his pants and gasps.

Bingo.

He’s almost disappointed that it works like a charm. John snatches his hand back and out from the confines of the borrowed gym shorts like he's been burnt on hot coals. Dirk's dick throbs in protest, aching from being denied the release it'd been so close to achieving. Tough shit. It may be attached to a masochist, but not one of that caliber. Letting John get him off would be a bad, bad idea.

“I can pay.”

Tempting.

“Office hours are closed.”

“Oh, uh…” John trails off, settling a warm palm on Dirk’s hip. His fingers tap a nervous beat. “What if I just did this one, you know, as a favor?”

Oh, _no_.

No, no, no.

“No.”

Shit like that is reserved for a partner. A girlfriend. A boyfriend? Who the fuck knows where John truly lies on the Kinsey scale. It’s easy for him to be open and comfortable now with a sex worker behind closed doors, but someone of his status will always have one foot in the closet. Dirk knows this, has even somewhat accepted it.

“Sheesh! Sorry, sorry.” The hand comes off of Dirk’s hip. “I wasn’t trying to—I wasn’t trying to _force_ myself on you! No means no, I got it.”

“That’s not what I was—” Dirk groans, making an unsubtle attempt at adjusting his hard-on that happens to still be screaming a resounding _yes_. “You weren’t forcing anything on me. I’m just sayin’ no, dude. We ain’t blurring this line between us anymore and you givin’ me a free handy the morning after I babysat your drunk ass is one way to ensure it becomes some low-res, deep-fried, pixelated bullshit.”

“Okay, yeah. I get that.” John pauses, hooking his chin over Dirk’s shoulder. “I was thinking more of a friend-helping-friend situation.”

“Not your friend,” he lies, wincing when he feels John tense behind him. Fuck. That was a little harsher than intended, and hell, maybe they _are_ friends. Acquaintances don’t typically drop everything to race across town at the first sign of trouble.

So, what really needs to be said is…

“I’m not your boyfriend,” Dirk amends. “You know that, right? It’s pretty important to me that you know that.”

“Oh.” One word, but the hurt in John’s voice rings clear as a bell. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t have a ton of actual relationship experience to go off of, but I don’t think there’s typically this much money exchanged for uh, services.”

"Right." Huh. Okay. Maybe it was presumptuous to assume John thought any different. Maybe it was wishful thinking.

“If anything, I’m like your sugar daddy!”

_Jesus Christ._

Dirk wrestles himself away from John’s loose hold, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet smacking against the hardwood. His face burns hot, heart pounding because, even though the laughter in John’s voice tells him it’s a joke, the cold hard truth of the matter is—he’s not exactly wrong. John’s pretty much exclusively funded his bankroll since they've met, and Dirk’s barely had to lift a finger in exchange, sans last night.

He turns, glancing over his shoulder at the comical drop of John’s jaw, doing his best to convey the sentiment of: _Are you fucking kidding me?_

But would it be so bad?

If John were his—

No. John’s _his_ client. Anything else would remove Dirk from his fragile seat of power. Anything else would put a collar around his neck. Figuratively. Maybe literally. Who knows what freaky shit John’s really into when he’s the one in control.

“You ain’t that either.”

He’s nothing to Dirk and Dirk is nothing to him. Together they’re a transaction, and that’s it. Except that particular lie feels heavy on his tongue, bitter in the back of his throat where it tightens. The weight of reality, the truth not spoken, exerts a cloying sort of pressure.

John watches him for a moment, not saying anything; expression sad, even while he smiles. He’s resting on his side, propped up on his elbow, sheets pooled around the vee of his hips. When did he take his shirt off? Dirk averts his eyes, ashamed and too embarrassed to allow himself to look any longer. The floor is a lot less interesting, but it’ll do.

“Dirk.”

And there John goes, trying to call his attention back. Not gonna work. Dirk continues to sit on the edge of the bed, back to his problems. John. Doesn’t even look when he takes and deep breath and says, “We need to talk.”

“If it’s about last night—” John pauses, and Dirk doesn’t need to see him to know that he’s fretting. “I’m sorry about that. I’m usually not that bad, or well. I usually pass out before it gets to that point. Even though I really do try not to get to that point at all! Yesterday was just…hard. You shouldn’t have come.”

“You called me.”

Behind him, John laughs. Humorless. “Yeah, I know. Sorry about that too. I guess I’d just been thinking about you.”

Dirk’s chest tightens at the casual confession, thankful he’s turned away to hide the flinch he’s incapable of suppressing. John had been thinking of him. That shouldn’t come as a surprise. Not when he’s been thinking of John religiously despite his valiant attempts not to. Thinking of him nearly every hour of every day.

It’s jarring to think this could be mutual. It feels that way.

And when’s the last time _anything_ has felt mutual with _anyone_?

For the umpteenth time, Dirk reminds himself that it’s just a mutual fascination. They barely fuckin’ know each other. Weeks of texting and few good hook-ups don’t mean shit. John doesn’t really know him, and if last night proved anything—he doesn’t know John. He’s got someone at home that’s known him for years; that knows all his flaws and shortcomings and sticks around anyway. Once the novelty and newness wears from his skin and the rose-tinted glasses come off, John will see him for what he is and send him packing.

That’s why he has to be smart. That’s why he has to end this.

Now.

“Will you say something?” Dirk jumps at the sound of John’s voice but deflates when he feels a ginger press of fingertips to his spine. “Sorry. I guess the silence is making me sorta nervous.”

“No, it’s cool. I was just thinking.”

_Don’t ask about what._

“About what?”

Goddamnit, Crocker.

“I can’t see you anymore.” It comes out in a rush like one, drawn-out syllable. It’s worse than the sting of ripping off a bandage—and he’s a coward. He can’t look John in the eye as he does it.

The hand on his back falls away. “Is this because of last night?”

“No.”

“I understand if so.”

“No, I—Fuck.”

Dirk twists around to find John flat on his back, hands folded across the dark trail of hair disappearing into his shorts. He’s starting at the ceiling, vacantly blinking into the nothingness. Dirk snaps his fingers once, twice, and finally, John looks at him.

Good. This deserves a face-to-face. Let ‘em know that he’s serious.

“Look. I don’t regret coming here last night,” he says. “In fact, I’m fuckin’ glad you called. You could have gotten seriously hurt.” He thinks back to the pills he pried from John’s mouth. “If not that, something far worse. Don’t apologize for wanting someone to help you through rough shit.”

John studies him with a strange curiosity, lip quirking at the corner. It doesn’t look much like a smile. “What if I want you?”

On reflex, Dirk’s face heats. “I think you’re missing the point. I’m not the person you need to be wanting—”

“But—”

“John. You need some professional fuckin’ help.”

Ah, there it is. Dirk may have well slapped him across the cheek. John recoils with pure despair, face twisting into shame, and then anger. He sits up but doesn’t make to leave the bed. It’s there, watching John hunker in rightful humiliation, that Dirk realizes how tactless he’d been.

“I’m sorry.”

John looks at him, brows furrowed, and huffs out a laugh. “Do you think you’re the first person to suggest professional help to me?” He pauses, but not long enough for Dirk to respond. “Do you think I haven’t tried? I’m fine. It was a bad night, that’s all. People are allowed to have those!”

“People aren’t typically one bad cake away from burning down their house,” he counters, watching the face journey that plays across John’s features as he relives the night. He sees the exact moment it all clicks together, memories shifting together and locking into place.

“Fuck,” John groans. “The cake.”

Honestly, the cake should be the least of his worries, but a concern is a concern. That kitchen was in a state of atrocity. Dirk knows. Intimately. He’s gonna be smelling batter for weeks.

“Don’t worry about it. There’s a fucked up mockery of one on the counter. Never really baked before, my bad.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah.”

“You…baked a cake?” John asks, incredulous. “In my kitchen?”

Dirk grows absurdly self-conscious every second that ticks by with John’s eyes on him. Was that a weird thing to do? It was probably a weird thing to do. Maybe he should have just cleaned up and left it at that.

“Where else was I supposed to bake it?” John keeps staring. Dirk’s hackles keep rising. “Dude, it was your dad’s birthday. You were pretty fuckin’ upset about it. I felt bad. No, not for you. Don’t look at me like that. I felt bad because he obviously meant a lot to you. I can’t really relate to shit like that. My dad didn’t deserve the moldy crumbs found under a greasy, Waffle House stove. So, he must have been a decent guy and probably deserved the goddamn birthday cake you almost killed yourself making.”

The silence that stretches between them is palpably awkward. Dirk expects a lot of things. John to get angry. John to get sad. John to tell him to get the fuck out. A response to that nonsense, verbal or physical. Just—pretty much anything other than a resigned, defeated sigh.

But that’s what he gets.

“You said we can’t see each other anymore,” John says, voice quiet. When he looks to Dirk, it’s with piteous hope. “Is there a reason?”

He’s asking if he’s done something wrong, Dirk can read between the lines well enough to know that. He hasn’t, of course, but the truth is too hard to admit. Maybe he can dumb it down, present something surface-level that will sate John’s curiosity. He doesn’t have to know the reality. The reason for the reason.

“I need to focus on my relationship.”

“Right. You two weren’t doing so hot. I mean, that’s what Roxy said.”

“We’re doing better,” Dirk says. It’s not exactly a lie, but it doesn’t feel honest either. That makes for a confusing amalgamation in his chest. “I just can’t really afford any distractions right now.”

“Ah,” John says, letting out a pained sigh—the sound of someone realizing they’re the distraction. “I can understand that.”

Can he, though? As far as Dirk knows, John’s never had a real relationship, or at least not a public one. How can he understand the fight it takes to make it work with someone you’ve already dedicated so much of your life to? Relationships are made of sacrifices. John isn’t a distraction. He’s a sacrifice. There’s no way he understands that.

And here’s no way he understands the significance, not when Dirk barely understands it himself. But that’s the kind of fucked-up introspection expected from a guy who worked in an auto repair shop and still doesn’t know shit about cars.

“I should go.”

“Let me call my driver.”

“No—”

“Seriously. It’s fine.” John already has his phone out, tapping away on the screen. “You don’t have to pay for a Lyft back to your place. It’s the least I can do.”

The least he can…do?

“You don’t owe me anything.”

John looks up and smiles, sincere and bright, and still a little sad. Dirk feels like the crow inked on his skin; a sword pierced through his chest.

“I do,” he says. “I owe you a lot. You helped me realize some things about myself and, I guess this sounds stupid but, I’ve really enjoyed our time together. So, if this is the last time that I see you, giving you a ride home _is_ the least I can do.”

Oh.

That’s it then.

It’s over.

* * *

Dirk half-expects John to accompany him on the drive home, but he doesn’t. Both relief and disappointment battle for the forefront of his heart and mind because of it. John riding with him would give him a few more moments, maybe long enough to gather the courage to say what he really needs to. But John riding with him would make this harder, reminding him of their first night together, before this all spiraled out of control.

If only he could go back in time. Stamp out the flame before it flickered. Refuse to get in that car.

He wouldn’t though, he knows that. He’d do it again and again because he’s a selfish, greedy fuckin’ bastard who wants things that he can’t have. Not just with John, but with Jake too. With himself.

Pressed against the backseat door, face against the cool glass, Dirk pulls out his phone. There’s an unread text from Jake and two from Roxy. He opens the one from Roxy, barely skimming over her message. Something about being careful, _yadda-yadda_. He lets her know that he’s on his way home and puts it in sleep mode.

A million thoughts race through his head once he's alone. Words he could have said. Words he should have said. None of them amount to much. The entire morning and their conversation plays on a loop. John’s hands on him. John asking to take care of him with no money involved. Dirk, denying him that.

Christ. He’d been a dick.

The guy was beat the fuck up with emotional strife, an absolute mess just hours before. He called Dirk for a reason. He needed a little companionship, something to take the edge off, and Dirk had answered that call and did everything but what he’d been summoned to do.

John didn’t need a caretaker. He needed a lay.

Only, no. Deep down, that doesn’t feel accurate either. Another half-truth.

_“What if I want you?”_

Fuck.

* * *

“I sent Jake to the corner store,” Roxy says before he even has the door shut. He turns, eyebrow raised, to find sitting on the futon, crisscross applesauce. “How was he?”

There’s no sense in lying to her. In fact, he’s pretty sick of it. He shrugs off his jacket, flops down beside her, and rubs his hands down his face, collecting his thoughts.

“Not good,” he says, and Roxy gives him a look. “Okay. Not good at all. Pretty fuckin’ bad. When I got there, he was piss-drunk and covered in flour and eggs, and—who the hell knows what else? Had to clean him and put him to bed like a goddamn orderly.”

“Ah, damn. He was baking?” Roxy chews at her thumbnail. “Yeah, that ain’t a good sign.”

“No shit.”

“Hey! Don’t get snippy with me.” She shoves his arm gently, but her hand doesn’t leave. Instead, her touch snakes down his forearm and she intertwines their fingers together.

He missed her.

“Sorry. It’s been a rough morning.”

“Dirk. I don’t wanna sound like the jealous other-woman.” Roxy stops. Frowns. “What? Don’t laugh. I’m being serious here. John used to call me on important dates like yesterday. You know, dates like his dad’s birthday. The anniversary of his…”

Death. She doesn’t have to say it.

“Anyway,” she continues, “I thought it was weird, right? That I hadn’t heard from him.”

“Sorry that you didn’t get to play nurse, Rox.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so bitter but—fuck, he is? He’s the jealous other-woman, even when he has no right to be. John chose him and he botched it all to hell.

“Well, as cute as I’d be in a nurse’s outfit, that ain’t exactly what would happen. He didn’t normally get to that point. I’d just go over there, and we’d watch, you know, movies and shit. Old home videos of lil’ Johnny and his dad. He’d just talk, normal stuff like that.”

Somehow that stings worse than thinking the two of them killed the pain with a little carnal pleasure.

“Think he was too gone by the time I got there to do any of that stuff,” Dirk mumbles.

“Yeah, that’s what concerns me! He’d been doing so good!” She quickly rectifying herself with: “Well, he’d been doing _better!_ ”

“I told him he needed to seek professional help,” Dirk admits.

Roxy hisses through her teeth. “Oh boy.”

“I mean, it’s true. But it wasn’t my place to say it. I was such an asshole to him. He was hurtin’ and I just—” Dirk groans leaning forward, elbows on his knees, to bury his face in his hands. “Rox, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

He keeps his palms pressed to his eyes, hard enough to see spots. Next to him, Roxy leans closer, putting an arm around his shoulder, tugging at an errant curl that's twisted itself away from his head.

“You mean besides this charming case of bedhead? Nothin’, I guess,” she says. “You and Crocker are totes two peas in a pod, huh? Both blaming yourself for stuff beyond your control and telling yourself you don’t deserve anything good. It’s exhausting for a gal like me to watch when I know how much that isn't the least bit true. So, I got news for ya. Those voices are lyin’. The sooner ya’ll see that, the better you'll feel.”

Dirk swallows, lifting his head slowly. The moment his warm, flushed cheeks are exposed, she pecks a quick kiss.

“You’re my very best friend, D-Stri. Jake too—even John.”

His stomach turns at the mention of Jake and John’s names so close together. “John’s your client,” he corrects.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Roxy tells him, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her hair smells like strawberry shampoo. “I think you know that.”

Yeah. He thinks he might.

But.

“I don’t know what to do.” His voice comes out small, strained. The confession isn't an easy one to make. He’s spent the better part of his life struggling for control—of himself, of his relationships, of everyone around him. He’s always had an answer and a twelve-step plan, meticulously crafted and sure to work.

But he’s always been lost in the illusion of it. It's never been real. He’s just never had the strength to admit it before.

“Roxy,” Dirk pleads, frustration stinging behind his eyes. “Tell me what I need to do. Please.”

“About…?”

“All of it. About John. About—” He swallows. “Jake.”

Jake, who chooses that moment to come home. Fuck. The doorknob rattles, the tell-tale sound of the key jamming in the lock, followed by an aggravated string of curse words. They have about ten seconds.

Roxy speaks quickly and hushed. “As much as I want to help ya, this isn’t really something I can just…tell you to do.” She prods Dirk in the chest with a sharp, hot pink nail. “This is gonna sound hella cheesy, but you have to listen to that thing rattling around in your chest. You know, your heart.”

“You’re right. That was hella cheesy,” Dirk says, deadpan. “Also, hella unhelpful.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but Jake wins the match with the shitty lock before she can. The front door swings open, followed by Jake barreling his way inside, arms loaded with an eclectic assortment of reusable shopping bags. His gaze immediately falls on the two of them, and Dirk doesn’t miss the flash of unease, no matter how swiftly it’s replaced with a bright, toothy smile.

“Dirk! You’re home. A little help?”

Dirk’s already up before he finishes his sentence, relieving him of a couple bags. Jake sighs in relief, quietly thanking him under his breath. They unload in the kitchen. Roxy takes the duty of putting away the groceries as Dirk and Jake tag-team the task of unpacking them. They're a picture-perfect postcard for a dysfunctional family assembly line. And, bless her heart, Roxy also takes the initiative to lead the conversation, asking cheery questions, steering far and clear from the obvious topic that’s buzzing like static in the air. Dirk stays quiet until the last pack of ramen is in the cabinet, eagerly agreeing to a movie marathon when Jake suggests it.

The rest of the day becomes a blur, movies included. Dirk watches the screen in a daze, checking his phone every so often, finding a blank screen every time. Jake notices. Dirk knows that he does.

That doesn’t stop him _or_ the disappointment building in the center of his chest.

Because there’s never a new notification, and Dirk falls asleep that night, cold next to a warm body, wondering if John liked the cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, i know they're big idiot energy. haha. they are so very, very close to getting over that hill. very close. also, to put your mind at ease...the second half of this fic is a lot less depressing and angsty. please trust me!!


	12. Chapter 12

Life goes on.

Dirk knew that it would. It always does.

He wakes up; brushes his teeth; eats if he remembers; watches television with Jake; kisses him goodbye before heading out to the district; jerks off some suit in the back of a car; goes home; showers; goes to bed; wakes up; does it all over again. He grows numb to the passage of time, the repetitive circadian rhythm of it all. Somewhere deep down, anchored in the core of his chest, he knows the truth. It isn’t supposed to feel this way.

Life goes on, but Dirk’s only existing.

He’d thought he made the right choice.

No. He _did_ make the right choice. There was barely a choice to make. Only one option presented itself to be viable enough to consider and it sure as fuck wasn’t flushing the last decade of his life down the metaphorical toilet to be a novelty item in John Crocker’s king-size bed. He’d be about as useful as a throw pillow—only there to look pretty, can’t truly sleep on it, replaced when it no longer suits John’s tastes.

Dirk groans, throwing his head back to stare at the ever-growing water stain on the ceiling. He’s just fucking compared himself to a throw pillow. Yeah. That’s…that’s a new low.

For once, the apartment is quiet. Roxy and Jake are out of the house, picking up dinner from the Thai joint around the block. The television is off. The electric hum of the fridge and whirr of the rotating fan is all Dirk has to focus on as he sits on the edge of the futon, head in his hands, knee bouncing. He wishes he could shut them up too, emerge himself in total silence.

It’s therapeutic. Entertainment Weekly said so—everyone knows bullshit paparazzi porn doesn’t lie. That’s why people shell out cash for quality time in sensory deprivation tanks. On second thought, sounds like a nightmare. Just him, his thoughts, the darkness, and the weight of his actions?

Hard pass.

That shit is for the privileged folks whose only hardships are deciding whether to go with the _Coq au vin_ or the _Lobster Thermidor_ at the annual charity gala.

There’d been a time when Dirk could’ve easily tossed John Crocker into that category. Not anymore. Dude has some real issues, dark issues.

Dirk presses the heel of his palm against his eyes. He can’t get the memory of that night out of his head. He’s tried to scrub it clean but all he sees when he closes his eyes is John, broken and helpless and alone and reaching out. John needed a friend; he had needed Dirk. Wanted him.

When’s the last time someone wanted him?

Jake? What a fucking joke. That charade is already falling apart, he’s not ignorant to the signs. They’ve reached the top of the circle, and what comes next is the drop. It’s an inevitability he can no longer escape.

And that’s half the reason why Dirk barely flinched when Jake had asked to speak with him after dinner. Timing, Jake. Learn how to tactfully time shit. Because even if the request came at no big surprise, Dirk can’t help how his stomach aches at the thought, leaving him bereaving with the hollowness that comes with unwanted suspense.

 _This was all for nothing_ , a voice whispers.

This was all for nothing.

John’s hand had been reaching from a break in the waves, and Dirk just swatted it away, choosing to stay on his sinking ship. Completely useless. In the end, they’re all going to drown. A pretty Edgar Allen Poe way to fuckin’ look at it, but damn if it ain’t the truth.

John hasn’t texted or called, loyal to the request Dirk had made. It’s over, the only thing left for him to do is sink to the bottom or fight his way back to the top. No point in remaining in limbo, free-floating in an ocean of his own making, swallowed by indecision.

Sink or swim. What’s it going to be?

He’s always been the one to swim, to fight. Everything he has, though it’s not much, has been something he’s fought for. His home. His friends. His relationship. Every crumb of meager happiness he can scrounge up. He holds it all dear, holds onto it with his fucking life because, in the end, it’s all he has. They’ve always been the things that have kept him afloat but now…

Now, he’s not so sure.

The doorknob jiggles, jostling Dirk from his thoughts. He can hear Roxy just on the other side, boisterously complaining about the stupid lock that the slumlord reigning over this trash heap still hasn’t replaced. Seems like a lost cause at this point. Jake says something, but it’s drowned out by the door’s loud creak as it swings open.

“Should’ve picked up some blasted WD40, huh?” Jake grouses, kicking the door shut with the toe of his boot, either oblivious or uncaring to the fact that kicking it won’t make it better. He turns, holding up the tied-up, white plastic sack full of takeout, smiling in a way that once made Dirk’s heart flutter.

It feels like an anchor.

“Got the food,” he announces.

“Yeah, yeah. Thank you for your escort service, Mr. English! Now gimme that.” Roxy hums a teasing little melody, plucking it from his hands. “I’m starving!”

Jake pretends to be put out, and Dirk pretends not to zero in on the tabloid tucked underneath Roxy’s arm. Catching up on the wonderful world of Hollywood gossip isn’t his new favorite pastime by any means, but maybe he’s been flipping through them more than usual as of late. Under the crook of her arm, Dirk’s pretty sure he can make out the beginnings of “Crocker”.

Yeah. That’s the one.

He pretends not to be interested when she drops it down on the coffee table, resisting the urge to snatch it up and flip right to the page with John’s interview. Roxy sees him though, smiling sadly as she joins him on the futon. Jake’s gone to get silverware—not matter how many times you ask for it, they never put it in the bag—and it gives her a window of opportunity to lean over, pressing her nose against the rough scrap of his sideburns.

“Thought you might want to read this one,” she whispers, pecking him on the cheek and pulling away. “Hungry?”

She’s right, of course. He does want to read it. He’s been waiting for its release for a couple of weeks now. He nods absently, despite his non-existent appetite, eyes glued to the tiny thumbnail of John’s face at the corner of the magazine, barely peeling his gaze away when Jake returns with the plates and silverware.

The moment his Pad Thai is doled out and handed to him, Dirk goes for it. He flips to page thirteen, per the table of content, and sucks in a sharp breath. On the left-hand page is a photo of John in a smart, khaki suit, poised like a high-fashion model. He’s looking to the side, smile brilliant as ever, teeth blindingly white against his dark skin. A Rolex on his wrist. Diamond cufflinks. He looks handsome, devastatingly so. Untouchable.

Dirk pulls himself away to the article itself. The first portion is a load of the usual garbage, that unnecessary fluff journalists use to set the scene of the interview. Blah, blah, they met in a café, the sun is out, John looks gorgeous, blah, blah. Last thing Dirk needs is a reminder of how fucking good he looks.

There’s a lot of promotional talk about his upcoming special, whether or not he plans to take the show on the road, things of that nature. Dirk skims over most of it, stomach sinking with the realization that John will be touring at the start of next year. That shouldn’t bother him as much as it does.

**Why do you think people find your comedy so relatable?**  
Do they? [Laughs.] I don’t know. I’m always sort of flattered to hear that? When I go on stage, I try my best to present my most authentic self, with my struggles and insecurities. Then, you know, turn around make them funny. It’s nice to think that resonates with people in some way. I guess if you’re asking why I think that is, well. We—as people—tend to want to make sense of the things that hurt us? Or, at least, shape them into something digestible. Comedy can be a great way to do that!

**They say laughter is the greatest medicine!  
** They do say that! I don’t know that it counts as a respected medical opinion though.

Dirk reads the segment over, a cloying sickness curling in his gut. Is that what the fuck John thinks he’s doing? Shaping his trauma into something that’s more digestible? Something he can label and package and sell to the masses? Yeah. That’s exactly what he’s doing, exactly why Dirk can barely stomach his stand-up—especially now that he’s seen firsthand the specific type of hot mess John can be.

Where’s the humor in a man so broken, he can’t bake a cake without getting shit-faced, black-out drunk? Where’s the humor in a man so lonely, he has to pay for company? That he calls on a prostitute for help? Where is it? Because Dirk’s looking, and he doesn’t fuckin’ see it.

Christ.

Is that what he’s going to become? Just another punchline to a shitty joke? Is John’s next stand-up bit going to feature the poor, pathetic whore who caught feelings?

A few questions down and, yeah, there it is. The inevitable probe into John’s private life.

**You know I have to ask, right?  
** That’s ominous! [Laughs.] 

**For a long time, there were rumors surrounding you and Rose Lalonde. Recently it’s come to light that she’s been seeing fashion designer Kanaya Maryam. How do you feel about that?  
** I’m not sure how you want me to respond to that—if I’m being honest! [Laughs.] Rose is a good friend of mine. I’m very happy for her, and I look forward to meeting Ms. Maryam, hopefully soon! But yeah. I’m sorry to report that the rumors were only ever rumors. I know, I know.

**So, you’re saying to stick a fork in this fan theory?  
** It’s time. To be fair, I was never really her type, so I’m not even sure where the fixation came from! I’d say from Dave [Lalonde] but he would have just starred in the rumors himself.

**Of course! We can’t forget your bromance with her brother—but since you’ve mentioned types, and you’re now a confirmed bachelor, what’s yours?  
** Woah! I didn’t confirm anything!

**So, you are seeing someone?  
** I see lots of people. I’m seeing your right now! [Laughs.] Okay, I know what you’re asking me here. Officially? No, I guess not. Lately, I’ve realized that I’m not really at a point in my life where I’m capable of having these kinds of relationships. There are some things I need to work on first—or else I’ll just end up hurting the other person, you know?

**That’s very responsible of you, Mr. Crocker.  
** See? I can do that on occasion.

“Dirk?”

He snaps the magazine shut, flipping it over. Caught red-handed. Looking up, he finds Jake eyeing him with thinly-veiled concern, while Roxy pushes around her fried rice around with a wooden chopstick. Dirk slurps up the noodle half-hanging from his mouth. “Yeah?”

“You’ve barely touched your food. Are you feeling alright?” Jake reaches over, placing the back of his knuckles to Dirk’s forehead. “You feel a tad warm.”

“Hm? Oh, ‘m fine.” He manages a smile, gently pushing Jake’s hand away. Can’t really eat when he’s too busy swallowing down lumps of guilty hope, because one particular answer burns itself into Dirk’s retinas.

_Officially? No, I guess not._

Officially—which implies there’s _unofficially_ someone in John’s life. Or, at least, that there was. Dirk’s pretty sure this interview was conducted before the fallout, but logic would suggest that, fuck. That might’ve been him that John was talking about, if he were talking about anyone at all. But Dirk gleaned the subtext, the careful phrasing. Officially. Other _person_. Keeping in gender-neutral? Maybe that’s a stretch.

But shit. Maybe it’s not?

Maybe he was never just a fuckin’ throw pillow on John’s king-size bed. Maybe he was more. Or could’ve been, had he not balled up their entire relationship and slam-dunked it in a burning dumpster bin.

Despite his appetite being non-existent, Dirk takes the first proper bite of his meal. This time he chews, and it tastes like nothing. Which is a shame because he fuckin’ loves this Pad Thai. The second attempt goes a little smoother, and soon every bite he takes doesn’t feel like a chore. From there, he drifts in and out of the conversation. Something about Roxy’s upcoming hair appointment. Something about Jake’s upcoming viewer contest. Dirk half-listens to all of it. Mostly he just wonders if that interviewer ever figured out what John’s type is.

Busty, bubbly, and blonde? Warm and compassionate, smile like a ray of sunshine? Or someone sharp and frigid, all jagged edges to cut himself on?

Dirk doesn’t get the chance to find out. The moment Roxy’s cleaned her plate to lean back against the cushion with her hands cradling her belly like an expectant mother, Jake asks if she minds heading to the bedroom. She cuts Dirk a nervous glance and agrees, prattling off something about how she needs a long nap after all that anyway. Even takes the dishes to the kitchen on her way out, a real saint.

But that leaves you and Jake alone with the crushing weight of an impending conversation, to which Dirk can only guess the subject.

“We need to talk about John Crocker.”

Fuck.

“What about him?” Dirk asks, shrugging, sinking back into the futon, absolutely livid when he doesn’t fall right through into the ether unknown.

Jake grabs the magazine, waving it like he’s making a point. Which, to be fair, he kinda is. “The two of you are pals, right?”

A strange feeling seizes Dirk’s chest. He snorts. “Don’t know if I’d go that far. He’s a client.”

“Oh, Dirk, come on! Don’t be purposely dense. He’s ringing your phone for more than just booty calls.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Dirk grits out. That strange feeling quickly turns to anger. “Seriously. How is that even relevant to…whatever the hell it is we’re discussing here? Yeah. John was my friend, okay? Not anymore. Cut ‘em off. Is that what you want to hear?”

Jake’s eyebrows furrow into a point, head tilting at an inquisitive angle. “What? No. You might even say that’s the opposite of what I want.”

Dirk blinks. “Might I?”

“Yes!”

Okay. Not only did the rollercoaster go off course, but it also detached itself from the tracks and plummeted straight into a fiery pit of _what the fuck?_

“Alright,” Dirk says slowly. “In layman’s terms, please.”

Jake groans, frustrated, and turns fully toward Dirk, placing a steady hand on his bicep. It’s comforting, but part of Dirk feels like it’s a trap; like if he tries to flee the conversation, Jake will drag him right back. Ironic, huh? That he, of all people, would be the one to demand open communication.

“It’s like this, darling,” he starts, “I’ve noticed that you’ve been feeling a bit down lately, and I was just wondering if maybe the two of you had a fight? And if so, would you like to…talk about it?”

Dirk stares him down, unable to much more than gape. He doesn’t have enough arms for all the shit being thrown at him. First of all, Jake fucking English has been paying enough attention to his mood that he’s noticed a shift? That, in itself, is a feat. And now he’s asking to _talk_ about it? “It” being the details of a client relationship who may, or may not be, a little more than a client?

What the absolute fuck is happening? Does he have any clue at all of what he’s asking?

“Ain’t nothing to talk about,” Dirk mutters. “Our arrangement wasn’t working out, so I split. That’s that.”

“I saw the messages.”

Dirk tenses, freezes up like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. Everything screeches to a halt—time, reality, his heart. Jake saw what messages? The weeks’ worth of casual conversations between him and John, or the ones where John had drunkenly begged him to come over right before calling to do the same thing? Thing is, Dirk’s not sure which is worse.

Is it better to get defensive or pull a page from Jake’s book and play dumb? Probably neither. The best option is to tell the truth. Trouble is, he barely has a grasp on the truth.

Play dumb it is.

“What?”

“On your phone,” Jake needlessly clarifies.

“I know that.” Dirk purses his lips together, breathes through his nose. “You went through my phone?”

“I didn’t _go_ through it! I just—ugh, Dirk, I’m afraid you’re misreading my intent here. I’m not angry at you. You’ve forged a comradery with Mr. Crocker and—”

He can’t help it. He laughs. It’s just so fucking bizarre. Here is his boyfriend, completely unfazed that he’s apparently _comrades_ with an A-list celebrity client. Which, would be normal if his offered services didn't include bending over for the dude. Not a hint of fuckin’ jealousy in the house. Unbelievable.

Wait. No. Scratch that. It’s so incredibly believable, that it’s circled back around into downright fictitious.

Jake scoots his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, frowning. “What’s so funny?”

“This,” Dirk wheezes. “Are you seriously trying to play therapist to me and John Crocker’s—” He cuts himself off, can’t bring his mouth to form the word ‘relationship’. “—comradery?”

“Is that so wrong?”

“Yeah? A little bit.” Dirk runs a hand through his hair, the initial pump of adrenaline wearing thin. “Why do you care?”

Fuck. He shouldn’t have asked that. Not when he knows that he’s in no way, shape, or form prepared for the answer. Too late now. Jake’s face is softening, and he reaches out to brush the hair from Dirk’s forehead, tucking it behind his ear. Gentle. Jake is always gentle, even when he rips the heart from Dirk’s chest, still beating.

“I want you to be happy, darling.”

Dirk closes his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath. No, no. Fuck that. He’d been right. He can’t handle it. Jake’s hand still rests on his cheek, thumb running over an old, faded scar. Every caress, soft as they are, feels like sandpaper to the touch—and yet he still clasps his hand over Jake’s to keep him close.

“I am happy,” Dirk says, whispering to keep the waver from his voice. By now, the lie comes easy.

“It’s just. Ah, how do I put this without sounding like an ass?” Jake chews at this bottom lip, thumb still stroking. He’s thinking, but Dirk doubts he’ll find an answer. If you have to think that hard about not sounding like an ass, odds are, you’re going to sound like an ass.

“Just say it,” Dirk says, not unkindly, wanting to get it over with.

“For a little bit there, I was seeing sparks of the old Dirk. You were laughing more. Really giving it to me with the banter. I couldn’t keep up with it then, I certainly can’t keep up with it now. You see, Dirk, the thing about it is,” Jake pauses, and when he smiles, there’s a soft edge of sorrow. He brings Dirk in by the cheek, guiding him to the crook of his neck, hands snaking around to thread through his hair.

Cradled. Dirk feels cradled there—and because he’s a weak man, he gives in to it, wrapping his arms around Jake’s torso and squeezing.

“The thing about it is,” Jake repeats, voice on the cusp of unsteady, “weeks ago I would have believed you, had you told me you were happy. But even then, I wouldn’t have been naïve enough to think I was the cause.”

Fuck. Dirk squeezes his eyes shut again, angry at himself when a hot tear slips from the corner. He digs his fingers into the meat of Jake’s back, rucking up his shirt. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

There are so many things he needs to say, countless things. He says none of them. Can’t. They won’t come, stuck in his throat as he shakes, silently sobbing into the soft cotton of Jake’s shirt. He smells familiar, but he no longer smells like home.

Dirk needs to let go, but he can’t do that either. Not when broad hands are running up and down his back, attempting to soothe him. He recognizes that Jake’s trying—he’s trying so hard. Doesn’t he deserve to have Dirk try too?

“Don’t cry,” Jake says against his temple, giving him a rough kiss. “I’m only suggesting you extend an olive branch. Try and get your friend back.”

_Friend._

The word drips like poison in Dirk’s heart, serving as a cruel reminder to reality. Jake doesn’t understand what he’s asking him to do, and his guilty conscience won’t allow him to clarify. It’s fucked up. He’s so fucked up. He’s taken an innocent, wholesome suggestion and squeezed it until it’s black and blue and just as broken as he is.

Dirk lifts his head just enough to be heard. “It’s too late.”

It’s too late to fix this. It’s too late to go crawling back to John. It’s too late to try. It’s too late to do goddamn anything. 

And if he waits any longer, it’ll be too late to go to work.

“I need to head out soon,” he says, cold and robotic. Working is just about the last thing he _needs_ to do; isn’t gonna fill the right kinda holes, grisly as the analogy is. But he needs to feel anything other than what he feels in this moment, even if it’s just a lukewarm sense of monetary obligation.

Jake lets go but keeps him at arm’s length. “Why don’t you stay in tonight, hm? I’ll cancel my livestream. You can pick the movie.”

There it is. The final nail driven in his coffin. The weight off all his emotions grows heavy enough to cave him in, bottoming out, leaving him feeling hollow. Guilt settles in its place, devouring him like termites on fragile pine. He feels sick. He feels nothing at all. This is what he’s wanted, what he’s been begging for, and he can’t.

He can’t allow himself to have it, and he realizes with startling clarity, it’s because he no longer wants it.

“Got some things coming out the account soon. It’s Saturday night, I need to be out there.”

“Right,” Jake says, finally dropping his hand away to rub at the back of his neck. “I probably shouldn’t cancel then either.”

“Another time,” Dirk agrees, standing, but a hand catches his wrist. This has to be the most Jake’s touched him in years, and still, the wrap of his fingers feels like a cuff.

Jake smiles, but there’s an uncertainty to it. “What’s a fella have to do to get a kiss?”

The monstrous guilt flares to life, continuing its mission of eating Dirk from the inside out. It presses sharp talons into the dip of his throat, trying to choke an excuse out of him. Because he can’t kiss Jake. Not right now. He doesn’t possess the level of cruelty that’d take.

“Pad Thai,” he says, a sympathetic shrug to his shoulders. “Sorry, can’t have you swellin’ up like a balloon.”

Jake’s eyes go wide and understanding as he nods. “Good call!” he says, bringing Dirk’s hand to his lips instead. There, he presses a kiss. “What would I do without you?”

What a loaded question.

“Go into anaphylactic shock, I guess.” Dirk fabricates a smile of his own, hopes it doesn’t edge too close to painful, and pulls his hand from Jake’s loose grasp. “Nah, you’d survive.”

_You’d be better off._

“I wouldn’t be so sure. We’re a team, you and I,” he says—and fuck, Dirk didn’t think there was anything left in him to break. “No matter what happens, I’ll always have your back. You know that…don’t you? Dirk, look at me.”

Dirk isn’t even sure when he’d turned around, but he stays that way, despite Jake’s reasonable request. Don’t let ‘em see you cry, he tells himself—and the voice in his head sounds familiar, but it’s not his own. Don’t let ‘em see you vulnerable or weak. Those are the soft spots where people will dig their claws. But it’s too late for that, he’s got a meat hook in every tender place he has left, and there’s no way that Jake doesn’t register the shaking of his shoulders for anything other than what it is.

“Dirk.”

“I need to wash up and head out.”

This time, Jake lets him go, and when Dirk reaches their tiny, closet-sized bathroom he locks the door behind him to let out a shuddering breath. He slaps at his cheek, roughly wiping his tears with the back of his hand. Come on, get it together.

It’s hard to look in the mirror when he hates what he sees, but somehow, he stomachs it long enough to splash cold water on his face. Reapplies his eyeliner. Smudges it with his finger. Arranges his curls away from his face. Tries not to think about how he’s only wearing his hair like this because John said he liked it. By the time he’s done, he figures he looks good enough to at least score some desperate chump lookin’ for a wristy.

Dirk takes a deep breath and lets the mask fall into place.

And it’s showtime.

* * *

The street ends up being dead by the time he arrives. A few fellow workers linger around, trying to look inconspicuous. He bums a light off of a dude he’s never seen before in a leather jacket, hair slicked back like he’s a Travolta understudy. He’s green, Dirk can tell. He complains way too fuckin’ loud about the lack of clientele.

So, when a stretch limo pulls up like a shark in a school of fish, and all his competition shrinks back into the shadows, he should really take it as a red flag.

Dirk takes one last drag off his cigarette, butting it out on the bottom of his boot, and pops a piece of gum in his mouth. He watches as a window with illegal-grade tint rolls down, a hand full of gold rings extending out to beckon him closer. Dirk takes his time, sauntering over with his hands in his pocket. It’s the same old song and dance that he’s used to, only now he feels like an empty puppet, performing for a chance at some quick cash.

Autopilot takes over.

“You lookin’ for directions?” Dirk asks, approaching the car. He stops about two feet away when the shadows fade enough for him to get a look at the thing in the backseat. Baldhead, complexion so sullen and sickly it borders green, a nasty sneer and a gold tooth.

Yeah. He’s seen this bastard around, knows through the grapevine that the dude has a vile, and vicious reputation. Bloodthirsty and violent.

“You know what I’m looking for.”

If Dirk were a smart man, he’d tell the creepy bastard that he can find whatever it is on the corner of “Go fuck yourself” and “I ain’t interested.” But he’s not a smart man; he’s proved that to himself. He knows what he deserves, and this asshole is probably just jonesin’ to sink his teeth in, to make him hurt.

Plus, that’s an impressive wad of cash he’s flashing about.

“For that stack there, you can do whatever you want,” Dirk purrs.

“For _this_ stack?” The man laughs, waving the Benjamins like a taunt. “I’ll fucking own you.”

It’s not too late to run. It’s not too late to make it to the corner store, call a Lyft, and go home to the people that love him.

_It’s not too late._

Dirk gets in the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, my BB fic has been completed! I can finally focus on this story again! Thank you all so much for your patience! But hey, Dirk's figuring some things out...slowly. This chapter will be a pretty crucial turning point.
> 
> As always, feedback is appreciated! & if you wanna scream with me, you can find me on insta (@ectobaby) and tumblr (@ectoobaby)! <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple of quick warnings/notes for the first half of this chapter:  
> \- All the violence happens "off-screen."  
> \- It is referenced.  
> \- Blood and some description of injuries.  
> (I would consider it all pretty mild.)

“Jesus Christ!”

Dirk ignores the horrified gasp of his unfortunate Uber driver and slides into the backseat, pinching the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t feel broken but, then again, he can’t feel much of anything outside of a throbbing pain that pretty much encompasses his entire body. He’s definitely bleeding though; the warm drip has already made its way past his lips to coat his tongue with a horrid, metallic taste.

If he gets blood on this guy’s backseat, he can kiss his five-star passenger rating goodbye.

“Hey, do you need me to take you to like…I don’t know, a hospital?”

Goddamn. It hurts to think, much less talk, but the last thing he needs is to show up at the emergency room, dodging questions beneath fluorescent lights. He’s fine. He’s taken worse than this.

“Nah,” Dirk croaks, throat dry despite the alarming amount of blood and saliva pooled in his mouth. “Just take me to the address I put in. Ain’t a big deal, I’m just a bleeder.”

The driver looks reluctant but puts the car into gear. It’s Los Angeles. This probably isn’t the first time he’s picked up a banged-up prostitute; probably won’t be the last. Dirk imagines there are worse cases than his stumbling around out there, ones that weren’t as lucky as him; ones that don’t have anywhere to go but another stranger’s car.

The rest of the ride is in silence. No radio, nothing, just the sound of tires on asphalt as they leave a canopy of buildings, the road winding into the hillside until the city looks like a myriad of twinkling lights. Dirk presses his head to the cool glass, watching the scenery shrink. There’s no new flow of blood, so he lets his hand drop to his lap, observing with unsettling disconnect as the streetlights sporadically illuminate his red-stained fingers. There’s a lot more than he realized, all down the front of his shirt and pants. Fuck.

_Fuck._

And even though his body protests, tightening with a familiar pain, Dirk laughs.

And laughs, and laughs—until it's no longer laughter, but choked, wet sobs.

What the fuck is he doing with himself— _to_ himself? Getting in the car with that creep had been one thing. He knew what was coming, knew the bastard was gonna override all his rules, so he hadn’t even bothered to spill them. He knew he wasn’t leaving that car without bruises and a little bloodshed. It’s the pain he seeks, the pain he deserves.

But this—what he’s doing now—is a particularly cruel brand of self-torture.

Beyond the dark tint of the window, the wrought iron gate to John’s house rolls into view. Dirk can barely make out the faint glow of his front porch light, a couple of windows lit up with warm, inviting amber. The car pulls up to the security box, and the driver turns to look at him expectantly, if not a little skeptically.

He gets it. A guy like him couldn’t possibly belong in a place like this. Whatever. Can’t be mad when that’s not exactly untrue.

“I got the code,” Dirks mumbles, pulling out his phone and wincing at the brightness of his cracked screen. He rattles it off and the numbers get punched in one at a time with a shrill beep. A whir starts up and the gate slowly opens with a mechanical creak, and Dirk breathes a sigh of relief.

John didn’t change the passcode. Dirk makes a mental note to scold him for that later.

The driver tells him to take care of himself as he climbs out of the backseat, but Dirk can’t make any promises for that, not even to a stranger. He does, however, have a pocket full of crumpled up hundred dollar bills, and so he gives one up as a tip to show that the sentiment is at least appreciated. He doesn’t miss it. The money feels dirty now anyway. Tainted.

Dirk waits until the gate shuts and the red taillights disappear around the curb before he allows himself to limp up the porch steps. In hindsight, maybe he should have waited. Sent a text? There’s no telling if John’s even home or not. A light in the window means nothing. Oh well. He’s prepared to curl up on the welcome mat and lick his wounds until he either dies or someone comes looking for him. Jake’s expecting him back home, so it’s not a long shot.

Jake.

Fuck. Why did he come here?

Dirk leans against the front door, his body sagging while the weight of the night threatens to crush him. The pounding in his head returns and the numbness on the left side of his face starts to fade, both leaving him in a suspended state of disorientation.

_Why did he come here?_

Oh, well. Fuck it. He’s here now.

With all the strength he can muster, albeit not a lot, Dirk knocks on the door. There’s a smudge of red when he lifts his forehead from the wood, trying to right himself only to find that vertigo has already set in. He collapses against the frame instead, a new pain blossoming along his ribcage. A hazy recollection that features the bottom of a leather loafer floats to the surface of his mind. He pushes it back down until the bubbles stop.

Don’t think about that. Don’t _think._

Tears well in his eyes, despite his best attempt suppressing them. Dirk knocks again, fervently whispering a prayer that someone, anyone, will answer this time. He can’t go home like this; doesn’t even want to. It feels like he’s dying and fuck, he wants to be right here. He wants to be—

“Dirk?”

A smile cracks Dirk’s split lip at the sound of John’s voice.

“Hey,” he rasps out, struggling to stand straight once again. It goes marginally better than the last time. “Long time, no see—shit, I literally can’t fuckin’ see.”

Because his eyes are too heavy to keep open. Wait. No, that’s not it. One of them is definitely just swollen shut.

“Dirk, what the fuck?” John says, then repeats it under his breath over and over. “What happened? Holy shit.”

Suddenly, there are hands at Dirk’s shoulders, jostling him upright like a ragdoll. And, like a ragdoll, he falls limp against John’s chest. There, all he registers is warmth, safety, and John. John. John. John.

“You should see the other guy,” Dirk mumbles into his chest, rubbing his face against the soft fabric. The scent of fresh linen and John’s woodsy cologne overrides the sharp pain he gets for his trouble.

“Yeah, well. If I saw him, I doubt I’d leave much of him to see.”

Dirk’s breath hitches in a poor excuse for a laugh. “You seriously gonna defend a whore’s honor?”

It’s meant to be a joke, but the grip on Dirk’s shoulders tightens, and he’s guided back. His right eye is open just enough to see the look on John’s face, all disappointed concern, and it breaks him in more ways than a fist ever could. All at once, Dirk realizes how fucked up it is that he came here at all. He told John to fuck off and then disappeared—only to what? Show up, bloody and broken on his doorstep weeks later?

He swallows down the metallic tang of blood, swaying on his feet.

“You should finish the job.”

John pulls back, his expression now twisted in horror. “What?”

It hurts bearing witness to so much pity, especially when Dirk knows he doesn’t deserve an ounce of it. A voice whispers vicious truths in his ear and they echo in his head with a familiar vibrato. It’s his father’s voice, slurred with whiskey, telling him that he’s no good. That he’s selfish. Inconsiderate. Insecure.

 _Just look at you,_ the voice says, _soppin’ up attention from anyone that’ll give it._

And it’s true. Too much of a coward to properly end things with Jake. Too much of a selfish bastard to leave John the fuck alone.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” Dirk says with sudden clarity, jerking himself from John’s grasp to stumble back to catch himself on the doorframe. Adrenaline-induced shock doesn’t last long, turns out. He hurts all over now.

“No,” John agrees, and fuck if that doesn’t sting just as bad. “You should have gone to the _hospital_. Let me get the car—”

“No. No hospital.” Talking is starting to get difficult, so Dirk pleads with his eyes instead. Not only can he not explain this, but he also can’t afford it. “You got a first aid kit in there?”

John’s throat bobs on a hard swallow. “Yeah.”

“Care if I use it?”

The answer is a swift nod of John’s head as his hands find Dirk’s waist, pulling him in gently to his side. Dirk leans against him, gives himself a moment to be dead weight. He can take it. Goofy comedian or not, John is strong and sturdy, and Dirk’s intimately aware, both from their bedroom escapades and from dragging his drunken ass through the halls. And while Dirk limps at his side, passing by familiar doors until they reach John’s bedroom, he realizes the poetic irony of it all.

He’s just as fucked up, if not more.

Next to him, John remains silent. Dirk can barely make out the concerned crease of his brow, deadly serious. It’s hard to gauge whether or not he’s pissed off or just upset in general. Maybe disgusted? Mister fuckin’ Hollywood has probably only ever seen a shiner applied with makeup brushes, not knuckles. Blood flows a lot differently when it ain’t all corn starch and food coloring.

He's guided to the master bath and backed against the counter until he has no choice but to prop himself up. John moves away, bending down to rummage in the cabinet beneath the sink. The surface is cool against his palms, smooth and durable. Marble, probably. Dirk focuses on the feeling in a futile attempt to keep the contents of his stomach inside his stomach.

“I’m going to turn the light on, okay?”

Dirk nods, realizes it’s too dark for John to see him, and clears his throat with a painful cough. “Go for it.”

John presumably goes for it. Light floods the bathroom, wheedling its way beneath Dirk’s tightly closed eyes. He slowly opens them to the best of his ability—which, sadly, isn’t a lot. He blinks to adjust. Shit. That’s bright.

Excruciating as it is, at least with the lights on, he can finally get a good look at John. He looks tired, but that’s to be expected. There’s a blood smear on his white shirt that follows the trajectory of Dirk’s nose from where he’d been nuzzling against it like a mangy alley cat. John doesn’t seem bothered by it, but Dirk still feels bad. Who wouldn’t? He shows up in the middle of the night. Ruins his shirt. Dirties up his bathroom.

A real fuckin’ winner, huh?

“Thanks,” Dirk whispers, licking his lips, watching John place the first aid kit on the counter with shaky hands without looking up. “You didn’t have to do this.”

No response.

“Sorry about your shirt.”

Nothing.

John fumbles with the latch, opening the box to reveal that it’s still mostly stocked. Only a handful of bandages are missing, the tube of Neosporin half-empty. He can almost picture it—John getting a papercut, sucking his finger before carefully doctoring himself up. It’s a cute mental image, one that Dirk clings to as the silence stretches between them.

The essentials come out first. Gauze. Ointment. An ice pack. John reaches over Dirk and snatches the decorative hand towel from the holder, bringing it to the sink faucet. He wets it; squirts on some soap; wets it again. His movements are methodical, but not practiced. They’re not the movements of someone who’s cleaned up too many violent aftermaths. Or seen any, for that matter.

Because Dirk can’t help but notice that John still hasn’t looked at him.

It can’t be that bad, can it? He twists at the torso, assessing the situation that’s apparently his face—oh, fuck, okay. That explains it.

His nose is busted, his lip too. One eye is already turning colors, swollen and purple, bruising like a soft peach. There’s a cut on his cheek and a faint imprint of, what looks like, half a snake. It resembles the hood ornament on that slimy bastard’s car close enough that Dirk figures it's probably the crest off one of his rings.

He turns around pretty quickly after that, staring at the wall until he feels a gentle pressure at his chin.

“I’m going to clean you up now,” John says. He tilts Dirk’s head back until he’s forced to meet a tired, blue gaze, and Dirk almost wishes they’d go back to avoiding eye-contact altogether. It’s tender and soft, a look that caresses and swaddles him.

Brutality, he can handle. This might be too much.

“This may sting a little,” John mutters, jaw twitching. He dabs the warm rag against the cut on Dirk’s temple. It does sting, but not too bad. “There. I got you.”

John works quietly and Dirk lets him. Words aren’t coming easily right now anyway, all of ‘em getting muddled and choked up in the back of his throat every time he sees a window to express his gratitude. John keeps his touch soft, only applying pressure when necessary. Blood isn’t always easy to scrub away once it’s dried in place. Dirk _lets_ it happen, even though every fiber of his being seeks to reject it. It’s not fair that John has to clean up after his poor choices—and part of Dirk wonders if he came here on purpose; because he knew that John wouldn’t turn him away, knew that he would do this for him.

_Selfish._

_Manipulative._

The truth is, he doesn’t fight it because he doesn’t want to. He wants it.

And when it’s John’s thumb, not the rough snag of cloth, that delicately swipes over the split in Dirk’s lip, he finally breaks the silence with a shuddering, pained gasp that seems to snap them both from their reverie.

John doesn’t apologize, only takes in a deep breath of his own. His thumb strokes again, pulling Dirk’s bottom lip down gently, and Dirk tongues at the back of his teeth to make sure none are missing. No. All there. He must be cataloging a different kind of damage.

“What’d they do to you?” It comes as barely a whisper, hissed through gritted teeth. John’s eyes dart back and forth, taking in the carnage with rapidly increasing distress. “Dirk, what’d they do to you?”

“Just one guy,” Dirk corrects. “Just one guy with a plethora of fuckin’ daddy issues and a mean right hook.”

It’s a joke. John doesn’t laugh.

“Give me a name.”

Dirk blinks—winks? Only one eye is properly working. John, shit, he sounds serious. “Don’t have one.”

It’s the truth, and even if he did, Dirk wouldn’t give it up. There’s no way that goon wasn’t connected to so shady shit. The car. The crest. The Italian loafers. A fist full of rubies and emeralds. A guy like that can’t be tied to anything good. John’s got the fame and fortune, but even that wouldn’t save him if he went after the wrong someone. Especially not if he drew in unwanted attention. 

“I don’t believe you,” John says. He presses a fresh pad of gauze to Dirk’s temple, ripping off the tape with his teeth. Sorta defeats the whole purpose of sanitation, but he figures John’s saliva has been worse places. “Just a name, Dirk. That’s all I’m asking for. We’ll go to the police.”

“And tell them what? Sorry, officer, this man roughed me up after he paid to fuck me in the backseat of his limousine?” Dirk laughs, and like everything else, it hurts. “C’mon. They’d slap cuffs on me before they ever went lookin’ for him.”

“Okay,” he says, but his tone makes it obvious enough that he’s not gonna drop it. “How about you just tell _me_ then? Just to give me some peace of mind.”

That sounds like an even worse idea. 

“I don’t have— _fuuuuuck_ ,” Dirk sucks in a sharp breath, hissing at the pressure of the warm rag at his nose. “I’m tellin’ you. I didn’t get his name.”

John pulls back, taking the rag with him. “What? You made me tell you everything but my social security number!”

“That was different,” Dirk mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. Is it broken?”

“I don’t think so.” He sounds unsure, which isn’t too promising. “What do you mean that was different?”

“You were…a client.”

“This guy wasn’t?”

Oh, goddamnit. John’s not going to understand. No surprise when Dirk barely understands it himself and doesn’t know where to even begin trying to explain. Mainly he doesn’t know how to tell John that he got in that car knowing exactly what was gonna happen. Self-punishment via fuckin’ proxy just sounds ridiculous, and then he’d have to stick his hands in _why_ he was punishing himself in the first place. And that’s a box of luggage he just isn’t ready to unpack.

John slams his fist against the disposable ice pack, breaking the agent inside. Dirk hates how it makes him flinch. He’s had enough fists for the night. Maybe ever.

“Hey, I need you to talk to me,” John says, pressing the ice pack to Dirk’s swollen eye. “We can’t let him get away with this. This is—”

“All in a day’s work?” He raises his eyebrow the best he can. “Seriously. I’m not the first hooker on the block to get a bad break. I won’t be the last. Guys like this? They’re unavoidable. He ain’t the outlier here.”

 _But you are_ , Dirk doesn’t say.

“That’s bullshit and you know it!”

“Nah, man. That’s statistics.”

“No,” John says, stubborn and defiant. He steps away from the sink, from Dirk, and laces his fingers in his hair, pulling at the strands with a frustrated growl. “It’s bullshit that—that this is just okay to you? That you’re just letting it go?”

There’s not much to say to that, other than agreeing, so Dirk doesn’t say anything at all. A response that’s not good enough for John Crocker.

“What if it happens to someone else?” He raises his eyebrows in a stunning display of unwarranted hubris, smug like he’s just found Dirk’s Achilles heel.

It’s probably not very likely. Seasoned workers can spot a red flag from a mile away, and even then, the bad vibes were rolling off that asshole in droves. With or without a reputation, it wouldn’t be rocket science to treat him like the plague. Most of the time, it’s fake smiles and feigned compassion that do the most damage. Those are harder to avoid. But unfortunately, this line of work tends to be one giant game of Russian Roulette.

Still.

“No one else would be stupid enough—” Dirk stops himself, gaze dropping to the ground, too slow to mask the flash of guilt. “Look. Can we just drop it? I’m okay.”

“I know you—” Dirk scoffs and John purses his lips. “I do,” he reiterates, “I know you aren’t stupid.”

“Evidence would suggest otherwise.”

Sadly, the evidence he’s talking about isn’t his face, or his limp, or the bruises along his ribcage. It’s the fact that he’s here in John’s bathroom, slumped against his sink while he fights the overwhelming desire to reach out and touch.

He doesn’t get the chance; John touches him first, a gentle hand against his aching cheek. He closes his eyes against the pain.

“It’s just. You’re always so careful,” John stresses. Even with his eyes closed, Dirk feels the burn of his gaze. “I don’t get—”

“I wanted it,” Dirk interrupts, eyes snapping open just in time to see all John’s cogs click into place. There’s too much emotion there to pin down just one. Horror seems to be a big contributor though. He white-knuckles the edge of the sink, grits his teeth in defense. “Christ. Haven’t you ever wanted to hurt?”

John shakes his head, contrary to the truth. Dirk knows they’re the same, chasing anything to feel _something_. He knows that John knows it too.

“Jeez, how about next time we do something semi-sane? I’ll take you to get another piercing or something. Maybe try not to get yourself nearly killed! I’m sorry, I just—” John swallows and Dirk watches the prominent bob of his throat, breaking out in a cold sweat as John leans in to rest his forehead against his. He sighs, warm but defeated against Dirk’s lips. “Don’t do that again, okay? Promise me.”

“Yeah,” Dirk chokes out because, fuck, it’s all he can do. It’s not really a promise he can make. “Sure.”

“I should make you sign a legal document.”

“Mmm. That’s hot.”

John laughs, and Dirk feels the sound more than he can see or hear it. They’re so close, and John’s hands have already moved to settle on his waist, but Dirk still hasn’t allowed himself to give in and touch like he wants to. He keeps his fists curled around the ledge of the bathroom counter, tight enough he might break the marble. His legs, on the other hand, have subconsciously widened, shifting enough to allow space for John to inch between them.

“Hey," he whispers. "Can I ask a stupid question?”

“Can’t stop you.” Dirk licks his lips and tries not to think about how close they are to John’s. “Shoot.”

“Why’d you come here?”

Ah. There it is. The million-dollar question, but not exactly a stupid one.

“I mean, it’s not that I’m not thrilled to see you, I am, but—just with everything that’s happened, especially the _last_ time. I don’t. I didn’t think you’d want to see me again.”

Damn. He really has no fucking idea, does he? Completely oblivious to the fact that Dirk’s been stuck in a perpetual state of yearning for longer than he cares to admit. Maybe it’s the blood loss, or maybe it’s the way John’s hands are now lightly caressing their way up and down his sides, or the look of genuine confusion in his eyes. Whatever it is, it makes Dirk want to be honest.

“I saw an episode of SVU where you played a doctor, figured you knew what to do.”

“You do realize that I was the murderer, right?”

“Were you?” Dirk asks, half in a daze. He knows that. Watched the entire thing. “I changed the channel during a commercial break.”

John drops his head to Dirk’s shoulder, shaking with little effort to hide his laughter. It feels natural to laugh alongside him. Nothing like the earlier hollow, bitter chuckles he’d spat out with blood every time knuckles collided with his cheek. This is real, the true feeling he’d been searching for.

“I missed you,” Dirk says to his own surprise. He feels lighter for it, even when John tenses and the comforting sound of laughter withers away. And it’s with trembling hands that he finally allows himself to wind his arms around John’s torso, flattening his palms on the plane of his back.

“I missed you,” he repeats, squeezing. “That’s why I came back.”

John says something into his shoulder, way too muffled to articulate. Dirk hums a question, prompting him to lift his head and speak clearly. “Do you want to stay the night?”

Oh. Dirk said he’d be home before sunrise.

“If you don’t care.”

“No, no.” John straightens up, stepping back to rub sheepishly at the back of his neck. God, sometimes he’s like an overgrown kid askin’ his crush to prom. “I can give you something to change into and get the guest bed ready. You can, uh, take a shower if you want to.”

“Nah. I’ll just sponge bath for now.” As bad as he wants to accept that offer, and as bad as he probably needs to, he’s way too exhausted. He taps the gauze at his temple. “Can’t go and mess up all your hard work.” 

“I have plenty of bandages left,” John readily assures him. 

“I think you just like playin’ doctor.” Dirk raises an eyebrow. Shit. He hopes he looks coy. “That or you wanna see me naked.”

“Oh. Yes? To both. I kind of want to see if you’re, you know, okay? Just to be thorough. Nothing weird or anything.”

“Nothing weird,” Dirk repeats. “You mean like a slutty lab coat and a prop stethoscope?”

“Now you’re _making_ it weird.”

“Sorry, Doctor Crocker,” he replies, faux-demure. It’d probably be a lot sexier if his face didn’t look like a crime scene in desperate need of actual medical attention. Whatever. Work with what you got. John’s cheeks go a bashful shade of red anyway.

Plus, he’s probably right.

Slowly and carefully, Dirk strips himself from his clothes. It’s not his usual routine, nothing sultry about it or the breathy gasps he lets out. The whole thing is a struggle and somewhere along the way, between losing his shirt and fumbling with his belt, John steps in to help. It’d be embarrassing if it weren’t so tooth-rotting sweet.

He sticks true to his word and doesn’t do anything that might be construed as “weird”, which for them is already a low bar to limbo under. This whole fuckin’ situation is weird. Dirk knows he should be at home, or the hospital, or a ditch—not John Crocker’s nice estate in his luxury bathroom. He shouldn’t be treated with such meticulous care by a guy worth more than he could ever hope for, and for what? All joking aside, John doesn’t have a fucked up medical kink. This ain’t sexual. He’s tracing Dirk’s ribs, checking for fractures, not because he’s getting his jollies from it, but because he cares.

That’s a lot to process, and when John leaves to get him fresh clothes, Dirk tries to do just that. But it just sends his brain into overdrive, thoughts glitching all over the place like the fuckin’ Matrix. John isn’t getting anything from this. John cares. And, for whatever reason, his brain doesn’t want to compute.

There’s no other excuse, and Dirk realizes with startling clarity, standing naked in John’s bathroom—that John is no longer his client.

They’re friends.

* * *

“Alright, you know where to find me if you need anything. I changed the sheets and everything, even though I’m pretty sure you were the last to sleep in here.”

Dirk takes in the endearing way the sheets are fitted haphazardly on the guest bed. Next to him, standing in the threshold, John tries to inconspicuously wipe away a bead of sweat. Man. He probably really wrestled with the fitted one. That’s fair, those are always a bitch. Lucky for Dirk, he sleeps on a futon. This is still the height of luxury.

“Thanks,” Dirk tells him, “I guess, I’ll just. Uh.”

Jesus. There’s no way to describe the tension other than outstandingly awkward. The pain has started to ebb away, replaced with a loopy kind of weightlessness that Dirk blames on the painkiller John had insisted he take. At least he’ll be able to sleep. Alone. In the guest bed. In nothing but a pair of boxers and one of John’s old, oversized university shirts. It’s pretty comfortable, actually. He might not get it back. Plus, there’s a sweet Trojan horse on it. USC really knew what they were doing when they picked the mascot.

Okay, yeah. He’s definitely some kind of high.

“Goodnight then. I’ll see you in the morning?” John looks hopeful, smiling nervously. Given the statistics, there’s a good chance Dirk will be gone before he wakes, and he clearly knows that.

“Yeah.” He’s already shot a text to Roxy and Jake, letting them know he’ll be staying out. That, come morning, he’ll still be here. “G’night.”

Dirk makes it all the way to the middle of the room before he freezes. There’s a sudden uptick of his heartbeat, a fresh rush of adrenaline, one that he can’t pinpoint the exact origin of. Something feels off, and it’s not just the painkillers pulling a hazy blanket over his eyes. The tension is taut and, fuck it, he has a pair of metaphorical scissors.

Dirk turns around to find John still lingering in the doorway just like he knew he would be. He’s got one hand on the frame, faking a departure. Dirk sees right through the charade. They’re both playin’ the same song and dance here.

“Let’s cut the bullshit,” he says.

John’s eyes go comically wide, fumbling over the beginnings of a sentence. It’s cute. Eventually, he gets out a gargled noise that sounds like, “What?”

Dirk jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Neither of us wants to sleep in that bed,” he slurs.

John straightens a little at that, tilting his head as his previous fluster morphs into genuine confusion. “What?”

Smiling seems to take forever; like he’s pulling the muscle through molasses. It gets there eventually, as slow and languid as his thoughts feel. Dirk tries to wiggle his eyebrows, but the left side of his face has gone numb again, so he’s not entirely sure he pulls it off. John looks amused, if not thoroughly baffled.

“Why don’t you just take me to bed already?” he asks, pausing to give John the opportunity to tell him what a great idea that is. He doesn’t, so Dirk adds a little clarification in case it's needed. “Take me to _your_ bed.”

“Oh,” John blinks. “Not that I don’t want to do that—because I do—but are you sure?”

“Yeah, bro. Don’t think I’ve ever been surer about anything in my whole life.” Dirk takes a confident step forward, but the stupid, goddamn floor moves out from beneath him, and he stumbles. Luckily, he’s all legs and grace, able to catch himself before he faceplants. Nice save, Strider.

(And it’s only after he’s upright again, inches from John’s face, that he realizes he didn’t catch himself at all.)

“For the record,” John says with a subtle, but fond, smile, “I love when you use ‘bro’ as a term of endearment.”

“Who said I’m endeared?” Dirk mumbles. He nuzzles into the warmth of John’s neck, breathing in and reminding himself just how tragically endeared he actually is. “You smell good.”

“I think you need to get some sleep.”

The next thing that Dirk registers is the heat of strong arms wrapping around him, hoisting him off the ground with alarming ease and caution. Woah. He knew John was strong but, goddamn. That’s impressive. Dirk knows he doesn’t weigh a whole lot, mostly bones and lean muscle, but it ain’t often he gets carried like a princess to bed.

To the _wrong_ bed.

John makes his way over the _guest_ bed, apparently perfectly fine with depositing him there.

“Hey,” Dirk whines in protest. “Thought I said I was okay with sleepin’ with you.”

“I’m not—I don’t think it’s a good idea to, you know, _sleep_ together.”

His arms and hands are currently occupied, but even with his opioid-addled brain, Dirk can hear the air-quotes around the word ‘sleep’. Oh. Is that what he thought he meant?

“Huh?”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re, uh, really adorable being all cuddly and everything. I do—you are! You can’t see me because it’s dark in here, but I’m totally blushing,” John says, tone light and teasing, but it doesn’t match the troubled pinch of his brow or the flat line of his mouth. When he speaks again, it’s quieter. Serious. “You went through a lot tonight, and I—Dirk, I don’t want to be just another person taking advantage of you— _mmmmfph!_ ”

Dirk drags his entire hand down John’s face in a sultry attempt at shushing him. He accompanies the gesture with a long, drawn-out: “ _Shhhhhhhhhhh..._ ”

Once John’s words are successfully snuffed out with his palm, Dirk takes the floor. Conversation-wise. He’s still very much not on the floor, cradled in John’s arms like he’s a blushing bride about to be tossed on the marital bed. Which is exactly the misconception he needs to clear up.

“S`not what I’m askin’ for, bro,” Dirk tell him. If he throws in the so-called term of endearment, so what? John had said he liked it, and he’s trying to win his favor. Yeah, that’s all. “Don’t ya wanna fall asleep next to someone?”

John swallows, and Dirk wishes his hand were on his throat instead, if only to feel it. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a minute nod of agreement, eyes wide behind the lens of his glasses. Even in the dark, Dirk can see how blue they are, almost glowing in the dim light that filters in from the bedroom window. It jars loose a memory, one that Dirk had tried so hard to forget. John, a drunken mess in a nice hotel, confessing that he didn’t want to be alone.

“I guess what I’m sayin’ is,” Dirk mutters, licking his lips because they’re dry, not to watch the way John’s gaze tracks the movement. That’s just a bonus. “I don’t wanna be alone. Not tonight.”

The opposition is too much to consider. If he’s left alone, that’ll just give him a window to climb through, and there wouldn’t be anything on the other side other than a steep pitfall into self-loathing. He could call a cab and go home, but deep down, he knows he’d feel just as alone there, too exhausted to pole-vault the permanent rift separating him from Jake. And Rox? Well. He’d like to spare her the horror show until he’s in a sharper state of mind. There’s already a long, tedious day of explaining ahead of him.

And right now, he kinda just wants to hear one voice—but it’s being ominously silent. And that’s not like John.

“Say something,” Dirk urges. “Tell me to fuck off—something. Don’t leave me hangin’ though.”

John snaps out of whatever trance he was in, tilting his head just enough to look down. The angle shouldn’t be flattering, and maybe it’s the drugs, but Dirk can’t help but note how unfairly hot he still is.

“Your accent gets really bad when you’re under the influence, did you know that?”

Dirk does his best to look unimpressed. “Is that all?”

“You’re getting pretty heavy. I think my arms are giving out,” John tells him, very matter-of-fact.

“Put me down then, asshole.”

John nods sagely, pretending like he’s seriously gonna drop him to the cold, hard ground, and Dirk lets out an undignified yelp, arms wrapping around John’s neck like that’ll save him. It’s embarrassing, but John just readjusts the weight in his arms and turns back to the hallway, beaming with an ear-splitting grin and a deep chuckle that rumbles through Dirk’s core.

John does put him down, this time on the correct bed. His. Dirk stretches out, distantly aware of the fact that there’s not enough goose-down, or high enough thread count, in the world to stop him from waking up feelin’ like a freight train hit him. But now of that really matters. All the bad feelings that lie beneath his skin; all the memories of fists thrown between words; all the ramifications of his actions; all the sobering clarity of what he’s done; all of that can wait until tomorrow. 

Right now, slithering beneath John’s duvet, watching him strip down to his boxer briefs with heavy-lidded eyes, he feels great.

And when John slides in behind to scoop him up, holding him close in a warm embrace, Dirk, for once, allows himself to enjoy it, unabashed. Doesn’t even flinch when John presses a kiss to the hard curve of his shoulder, or when John’s hands find a home beneath his borrowed shirt to rest unassuming against his belly.

“Can I ask another stupid question?” John asks, words hot against the shell of Dirk’s ear.

Dirk hums, that’s about all he has energy for. Even a shake of his head is too much, the fingers of medicated sleep tugging him down, down, down.

“Is this a one-time thing? Or, uh, I guess what I’m asking is—” John stumbles, burying his head in the crook of Dirk’s neck, tightening his embrace but not enough to hurt. “Are you going to come back? Or is this it?”

It’s a more than fair question. The last time they were in this position, when it was John that needed help, Dirk had pushed him away and ran. Told him that he needed help, and then refused to help him. Because he’d so blindly convinced himself that he wasn’t just as broken as John was.

But he is.

_He is._

“If you’ll still have me.”

John smiles against the nape of his neck, and there’s no need to break the silence. The answer is already there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sooooo sorry to all the people excited to see Lord English/Caliborn's character! Unfortunately, he was more of just an Easter egg, I guess! Instead of some faceless goon. Also, guess what! We've reached the point where we are going to start the trek up! No more rock bottom. :D That's not to say no more angst, but this chapter is a turning point. 
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support and feedback! It makes this project that much more special to me. Originally, when this idea first manifested, I thought-- "Oh, it'll be like 50k," which then turned into..."Nah, it's going to be closer to 70k..." and now. Well. We're looking at a projected 120k-140k. OOPS! 
> 
> As always, you can find me on instagram (@ectobaby) and tumblr (@ectoobaby)! And your feedback is always loved and appreciated! 
> 
> PS: painkiller!Dirk is my new favorite. What a dork.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter beat the shit out of me and stole my lunch money. 8.1k because no one can shut up, especially me.

Dirk’s consciousness floats back to him, hazy and in stages, like the world’s worst hangover.

Granted, it’s been a while since he’s taken anything more serious than an aspirin—so, maybe that’s not too far off. Oh, well. Worth it. He’d slept like a rock for the first time in ages, only now he feels like he’s being crushed by one. The pounding in his head is persistent, making it hard to do anything more than lay there like a corpse, but he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that John’s already awake. There’s a dip on the side of the bed and a noticeable lack of warmth.

Dirk groans and slaps a hand to his forehead, doing his best to keep his brains from leaking out of his splitting skull and, _ouch_. Behind his closed eyes plays a flash of the night before.

Fists. Hands. Blood. Teeth. His busted reflection staring back at him, cracked in John’s bathroom mirror.

_Shit._

“Maybe don’t do that,” John tells him, chipper but not enthusiastic. “Now, sit up. I brought you something.”

Not the “good morning” he’d been expecting. In the past, when he’d woken up next to John, it was to roaming hands all over him, coaxing him awake with gentle, eager touches. But no, not this time. Which, okay, that’s probably fair. He feels swollen, and sore, and can only guess what he looks like now that his face has had proper time to get nice and angry. Probably like some kindergarten art project, just lumps of clay molded together in the vague shape of a person.

Dirk cracks his eyes open, grimacing at the sharp pain that rips through him. But he pushes through it, struggling to wiggle from his coiled prison of sheets, propping himself up on his elbows to squint over at John who sits perched on the edge of the bed.

In the filtered morning light, he seems to glow, tan skin basked in pale yellow. Still mostly unclothed, but it looks like he’s taken a shower recently. His hair is a mess of damp curls dripping water down the column of his neck, racing each other down the rivet of muscle between his shoulder blades. For a brief moment, lost in his post-coma haze of flowery observation, Dirk wonders what would happen if he were to lean over and lick it up.

He quickly buries that train of thought before it can leave the station. One, because he’s too fuckin’ sore to follow through with anything more than his desperate fantasy, and two, John’s currently trying to hand him something.

Dirk holds out his palm and John drops a tiny pill, handing him a glass of water with it.

“Breakfast in bed,” Dirk comments dryly. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not the same stuff as last night, that shouldn’t make you so, uh.” He flaps a hand around like that’s supposed to mean something. “Woozy?”

Dirk tosses the medicine back, chasing it with a long gulp of water. Then, a little more water because fuck, he’s thirsty. He only stops when it starts to dribble down his chin and make a mess. Shame isn’t really on the menu right now, and he’s parched.

“Gonna be honest, at this point?” Dirk leans over, stretching to sit the glass down on the nightstand, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You could’ve told me it was a horse tranquilizer, and it wouldn’t have made much of a difference.”

John makes a noise that barely constitutes as a laugh, it sounds like more of a courtesy chuckle than anything, and turns his back to Dirk to rest his elbows on his knees, knuckles folded under his chin.

“I know that’s supposed to be a joke,” he says, “but part of me is afraid that there’s some truth rooted in it.”

There’s a truth rooted in all jokes. Crocker, of all people, should know that.

“If you think I’m gonna start poppin’ pills from strangers like candy, you’re wrong,” Dirk huffs. It’s pretty offensive he’d think otherwise, or even suspect it—but Dirk supposes he hasn’t given John much to work with as far as sanity goes, at least not in the last twenty-four hours. “Inner-city schools were all about the D.A.R.E program. So, don’t worry, I got my fill of stranger danger etiquette. Read the pamphlet and everything, learned How to Say No a hundred different ways.”

John glares over his shoulder, unamused. “And you still let some creep use you as a punching bag!”

Dirk glares back, just as sharp. “That’s my business.”

“Yeah, well. When you show up at my house in the middle of the night, it becomes mine too.”

“That’s because if I’m in your bed in the middle of the night, we’re doin’ business,” Dirk snaps. It lacks the bite he means for it to have, more of a weak nibble with no drawn blood.

He also doesn’t have a leg to stand on, despite being half-naked, twisted up in John’s sheets, they haven’t actually conducted business in a while.

“I don’t remember paying you,” John says curtly.

And there it is.

“I can leave.”

“You wouldn’t.” His eyes narrow in a wordless challenge, but there’s the smallest hint of fear there, a fear that Dirk might follow through. “You’re just being stubborn.”

“Am I?”

The answer is, yes. He is. Being stubborn is far easier than admitting he’s right on both accounts. John didn’t pay for this, and Dirk doesn’t intend on going anywhere until he has to—or until he’s kicked out. Whichever comes first.

“Yes,” John whines, twisting until he’s facing Dirk fully. “You’re also being a brat!”

Oh boy. If he had any dignity left to spare, Dirk would feel shameful at the way his stomach flips and his thighs tingle at _that_ turn of phrase. But, as it stands, he doesn’t, so he lounges back to assess John with heavy-lidded bedroom eyes, and smirks.

Brat mode, activated.

“Now, see? You gotta pay me if you wanna throw terms like that around.”

“I know what you’re doing,” John says quietly. “It’s not going to work.”

Dirk grits his teeth, dropping his flimsy façade quicker than it came. The worst part is, he believes it, believes that John knows; that he’s just that transparent. He's deflecting, scrambling for the last defense he has left because John is right. It’s all true. There was no exchange of money. Nothing performative. No one requested his presence. He’s here on his own volition, brought on by a subconscious desire to feel, and that’s it.

He’d just wanted to _feel_.

The punches, the pain, the degradation—all of it had been superficial. It meant nothing. He’s numb to it and has been for a while. Last night, he’d wanted something new, something different, something that’d always felt unattainable for someone like him.

“I can leave,” Dirk says again, and this time it’s a threat.

But before he can make good on it, John is on him, leaning over with a hand on either side of his head, boxing him in. He hovers like a shadow, or maybe a shield, blocking Dirk’s view of the ceiling. It’s a nice ceiling, smooth and flat and perfectly white. No water stains or cracks to be found. But, still, the sight of John is much better, even if he looks borderline pissed.

“What?” Dirk’s eyebrows inch up his forehead, heart pounding in his chest. John’s so close, and so beautiful, that it starts to turn his brain to mush. “Do you think you can just keep me here?”

“If it’ll keep you from being a reckless idiot? Yeah. I don’t see why not!”

“That might be breaking more than a few laws. Abduction, for one.”

“Dirk.”

Right. He’s doing it again. The whole deflection thing. 

“Look,” he sighs, ironically _not_ looking at John as he says it. “I’m sorry, okay?”

And he is, he’s so fucking sorry that it hurts. He’s embarrassed. Ashamed. He’s sorry that he’s brought John into this mess, that he’s grabbed John’s hand only to drown him. The sheer fuckin’ audacity he has, after everything, to think he can waltz in here and ask for anything—

“I don’t want you to apologize to me,” John says, deafening the loud voice in Dirk’s head. “I’m not the person you need to be apologizing to.”

Fuck. He’s right.

_Again._

He should be apologizing to—

“Jake,” Dirk whispers, voice cracking without his permission.

It feels strange to say his name out loud here, in John’s bed, with John baring over him, only half-clothed. It feels wrong—but that’s exactly why he needs to apologize. It doesn’t matter how many times Jake says it’s fine, insists he doesn’t care. It’s fucked up. It doesn’t just feel wrong. It is.

John must, on some level, feel that too. His eyes widen, head tilting. “What?”

Has he not mentioned Jake’s name to him before? He knows that Roxy drunkenly dished about his relationship, but has he ever given a name? Honestly, he doesn’t remember, and that just makes him feel worse.

But it shouldn’t, not really. Friend or not, John’s still his client, and he doesn’t owe him shit about his personal life. It doesn’t matter that Dirk _wants_ to share intimate things, frivolous things. His favorite color. His favorite food. His childhood dreams. How his dad used to drink too much. How he was thrust into this life way too early. How this isn’t the first time he’s tasted a fist.

But not Jake. He’s never wanted to share those details, and not because he’s ashamed of him.

He’s only ever ashamed of himself.

“My boyfriend,” Dirk clarifies.

John doesn’t hide his flinch very well. “No. I mean—maybe? I don’t really know what the deal is there, but it doesn’t matter. That’s not who I’m talking about either.”

Dirk remains blank, expressionless as he blinks. He’s in way too much pain to think through this cryptic bullshit. “Who then?” he asks, point-blank.

John’s face scrunches up in frustration. It shouldn’t be so cute, and yet. “Seriously? Are you being serious right now?”

“I ain’t playin’ some back and forth guessing game right now. Sorry, bro,” Dirk tells him and then proceeds to do exactly that. “Roxy? My Uber driver? Gold tooth with the daddy issues?”

“You!” John blurts, and Dirk’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click of his teeth. “Holy shit, Dirk. You need to apologize to yourself!”

Oh.

Out of all the pills he’s choked down in the past twenty-four hours, that’s probably the toughest one to swallow. Dirk hears what he’s saying but the words refuse to take root. Blaming himself is easy. Forgiving himself? Not so much. He can’t do it; he’s tried.

Dirk clenches his jaw hard enough to shatter bone and reverts back to his most primitive form of self-defense. He zeroes in on John with an intense stare and reaches for the low-hanging fruit.

“This all sounds very pot, kettle, black.” 

But John doesn’t rise to the bait; doesn’t even flinch at the cruelty in Dirk’s tone. Maybe that’s because, despite his best efforts, there wasn’t much cruelty there to begin with.

“I know I’m a mess,” John says, off to a strong start, “but I think that makes me the best person to say it.”

Dirk scoffs.

“Don’t scoff at me, I’m serious! Who would you rather hear that from? Someone who’s been there or someone who hasn’t? I understand—”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Dirk cuts in, voice too wobbly to be sharp. He swallows down the lump in his throat, pretending like John’s face isn’t already starting to blur. Here he goes again.

He _hates_ this.

John has him pinned like a moth to a spreading board. Only, instead of pushing a needle through Dirk’s soft middle, John immobilizes him with a hand on his cheek. That contact alone is enough to crumble his resolve, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut, hiding the tear that slips out into a warm palm.

For someone that doesn’t know him, John sure is the fuckin’ champ at breaking him down to his bare essentials.

“You can’t understand,” Dirk insists, though it’s mainly a half-hearted attempt to convince himself. The bitterness on his tongue is unwarranted, he knows that, but it sits there all the same. He wants to believe that what he’s saying is true. “Have you ever had to work for a single thing in your life?”

There’s a flash of hurt on John’s face. “Yes.”

“Really?” Dirk asks, incredulous.

Part of him doubts that. He doesn’t mean pursued endeavors with mommy’s start-up loan money—but bringing that up feels like too low of a blow, even for him. He remembers John’s words, his raw confession in a drunken state, calling his mother a monster.

“Yes,” he says again, “I still know what you’re trying to do here, by the way.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dirk grins, cold and sharp as a dagger. Tears spill down his cheek, soundless and free of gross sobbing, it’s like someone left his tear-duct faucet on and now he can’t stop them. He can’t imagine exactly how unhinged he must look right now. He also can't imagine caring. “What’s that?”

“The flirty act didn’t get the reaction you were looking for,” John assesses. So far, correct. “So, now you’ve reverted to being an ass.”

“Thank you, Doctor Crocker. First, you’re my physician, now you’re my therapist. Where _does_ your medical expertise end?”

John narrows his eyes, but his lips twitch in a lopsided smile. “You’re trying to make me mad.”

“Well, trying to make you horny didn’t work.”

“Could have tried a little harder,” John teases, voice low and sing-song. He lets his fingers trail down the underside of Dirk’s jaw, his touch slick with hot tears. “But I don’t think that’s a very good idea right now,” he murmurs, eyes going half-lidded, making it obvious that he’s contemplating it regardless.

“Probably not,” Dirk says on a hitched breath. He’s sore and achy, and the medicine that John gave him earlier either hasn’t kicked in yet, or he wasn’t lying, and it really isn’t the good stuff. But he still arches upward, seeking the heat of John’s body as he caresses down the column of his neck.

He can probably take it.

“I’d have to be careful,” John muses, dipping his fingers below the collar of Dirk’s shirt. “I’d have to go really slow. It would probably start to seem a little intimate.”

"Yeah."

"I bet you'd hate that."

Would he?

Dirk swallows and starts to grow light-headed at the mere thought of John being careful with him, rolling his hips slowly, kissing his forehead, and cheek, licking into his mouth, stopping only to ask if he’s okay, doing his best to make him feel good. The pure fuckin’ indecency of it all.

Dirk grabs ahold of John’s wrist, putting a halt to his dangerous descent. “Now who’s the one deflecting?”

“Caught me,” he says, grinning as he pulls back. “We really probably shouldn’t, and I don’t feel very comfortable paying for any, uh, _services_ right now with you in your current condition.”

The room is too bright without John casting a shadow, and Dirk struggles to mirror his moves, sitting up to tamper down the overwhelming urge to pull John back on top of him. He rubs at the back of his neck to occupy his hands.

“Good call.”

“It just feels unethical.”

“Your dick ain’t the needle on your moral compass. Got it,” Dirk huffs. “Don’t worry, I’m not turning in a complaint report to the Sex Worker Human Resources department.”

John’s eyes go wide. “That’s—”

“Not a real thing. No.”

“Right, obviously,” John says, but in a way that makes Dirk question whether or not he found it obvious at all. “If there _was_ , we’d be filling one out for that bastard from last night.”

“Yeah,” Dirk winces, touching the gauze bandage at his temple. “He broke so many OSHA violations.”

John gives him the fond smile that Dirk considers contagious because he always finds himself returning it. Warmth wells in his chest, threatening to burn him up from the inside out. It’s a feeling that he still doesn’t know what to do with, and one that he sometimes fights, but it isn’t bad. It’s a feeling that he only ever feels around John, so it _can’t_ be.

“The point I was trying to make earlier,” John begins, clearing his throat, “is that last time you were here, you that said I needed help.”

Dirk winces, again. “Yeah, and I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry—”

“What? No, you should have! You were right—uh, you are right. I do need help, and Dirk? Don’t get upset, but so do you.”

“I’m,” Dirk pauses, choosing his words carefully, “aware.”

“Okay, so, the funny thing about help is that it usually involves two people.” John raises his eyebrows, gesturing back and forth between the two of them. He wants Dirk to fill in the gaps, to pick up the context that he’s so graciously throwing down like conversational breadcrumbs.

Dirk decides to play dumb for the hell of it. “I’m not following.”

“Oh my god. I’m saying that we can help each other.”

He knows, but what he can’t seem to wrap his head around is how they’re supposed to do that, or at least how _he’s_ supposed to. John has a deep pocketbook and the means to help him. Dirk has nothing substantial to offer. His body? John’s already paying for that.

“Is this your way of offering up your sugar daddy services again?”

John sputters. “What? No! That was a joke. I’m saying—” He groans, red-faced and flustered, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m saying that spending time with you _helps_ me. I’ve tried this before, you know? Celebrity rehab, therapy, all that good stuff.”

Dirk remembers the brief stint in a fancy, A-list rehab, it’d been on the cover of every corner station tabloid for weeks.

“But I always end up right back here,” John quietly adds after a moment. 

“In bed with a hooker?”

John shoots him a deadly glare but ends up sighing in defeat. “Ultimately? Yes.”

“Not to burst this truly endearing fantasy bubble you’ve got going on, but I don’t see how I, being a hooker in your bed, am supposed to help with keeping hookers out of your bed.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Then maybe you should be a little clearer—”

“You make me want to be better!” John blurts out. He stares, crumpled expression toying the edge of grief-stricken, and Dirk does nothing but gape like a fish out of water. “That’s why it never stuck before, I think. It was like, why does this matter? No one was there to hold me accountable and I didn’t care. But then I met you, and it’s—it’s so _weird_ , I can’t even explain it. For the first time, I just _wanted_ to be better.”

That’s.

That’s a lot to process.

He feels like he’s about to go into cardiac arrest, and then they’ll _have_ to go to the hospital and all John’s hard work patching him up will be in vain. They don’t want that, do they?

“You should want to be better for yourself,” Dirk says carefully.

“Jeez. Do you think it’d be so bad to have a catalyst for that?”

Considering that right now, in this moment, he feels like he’s the catalyst in a chemical explosion. Maybe?

“I can’t be your therapist, John,” he says, “I can’t play pretend either.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” John turns to him, smiling sadly before letting his eyes drop back down to his lap, staring at the palms on his open hands. “Playing pretend?”

Hah.

John may have his name in the credits of movies, comedy specials, and television series, but Dirk knows that he’s just as good, if not better, when it comes to acting. He knows how to moan a name and make it sound genuine and believable. He’s looked grown men with underwhelming measurements right in the eye just to tell them how _big_ their cock is without ever blinking or breaking face. He tells himself every day that he’s okay with his life, that he’s happy to be stuck in the suffocating rut of bills and blowjobs and loveless sex. He’s no stranger to the charade. If anything, he deserves a fuckin’ Oscar.

But the truth is, he’s never had to play pretend with John Crocker, and there’s no reason to start now.

“No, I guess not,” Dirk says, and then does something truly stupid. He leans over far enough to reach John’s hand, sliding his in its place, threading it through. “If you’re just asking me to stick around, I can do that.”

John stares hard where their hands are joined, like the lattice of their intertwined fingers are a particularly hard jigsaw puzzle. Suddenly, his words don’t seem like enough.

“And if you ever need me to kick your ass into shape,” Dirk continues, “I’m on it, bro. Just say the word. I think I realized something last night anyway.”

John’s head snaps up, his big, blue eyes so wide, Dirk can see the slight tremor of his pupils. His grip on Dirk’s hand tightens, bordering painful, and Dirk’s not entirely sure if he realizes what he’s doing. It’s fine. Not the worst thing he’s felt in the past twenty-four hours.

“Yeah?”

“I think our professional relationship is more than a little shot,” Dirk tells him with a light laugh. John hums, nodding, apparently eager for Dirk to continue, and so he does. “I don’t typically let the lines blur this much but, John?”

“Yeah?”

Does he sound breathless?

“You’re a good friend,” Dirk finishes, confused when John seems to…deflate? Shit. Was that the wrong thing to say? “Sorry, maybe that wasn’t the best adjective I could have used,” he continues, attempting to rectify himself.

The truth, Dirk. The cold, hard, _terrifying_ truth.

Say it.

“Do you realize that I came to you before anyone else? I thought I was dying and all I could think about was you. Not Roxy, not—” He pauses, leveling John with a certain level of intensity, all while hoping John can read between the lines. “Not anyone else. You.”

That seems to help as John cracks a sad smile and all at once it hits Dirk like a fuckin’ brick. His choice of adjective wasn’t the problem.

Holy shit.

“Earlier you asked me whether or not I’ve ever had to work for anything,” John says quietly, his thumb stroking idly against Dirk’s wrist. “Maybe I haven’t.”

Shit. That’s another thing he shouldn’t have said. Tack it to the list.

“That’s not true—”

“No, it pretty much is. I was handed this life and, to be honest, I never really wanted it. Everyone expected me to follow my mother’s lead, Mother most of all, and I didn’t fight back. I just went with the flow and ended up here, alone in a mansion that I didn’t really earn.”

“You work hard,” Dirk insists, and maybe he’s not exactly talking about putting hours in at the studio, or time spent writing comedy acts. He sees John working hard with every interview, with every public appearance. Holding that mask in place is exhausting, and the only person that can see that is Dirk.

“You don’t have to humor me,” John says. “Obtaining this level of success has never been very difficult. Not when I have notoriety with my name alone. Crocker carries a lot of weight and, you said it yourself, I’m not very funny.”

Dirk feels his eye twitch, his stomach twisting with unpleasant guilt. “Can you maybe stop pointing out all the shitty things I’ve said to you? I get it, I’m an asshole.”

“No, you see,” John stresses, “I need that. You _make_ me work for it.”

Oh, huh. That’s really something. Dirk hopes his bruising is pronounced enough to hide the flush of heat that rises to his cheeks.

What does a person even say to something like that?

“Sometimes I feel alone,” Dirk blurts out, mentally cursing himself almost immediately. They probably wouldn't say that. Oh, well. No turning back now, time to commit. “I guess that's something you could help me with, as a tradeoff.”

“A tradeoff,” John repeats. He seems to mull it over, scratching at his chin. There’s a fresh crop of stubble there, looks like he forwent the razor while showering. “That’s a good way to look at it!”

Dirk wants to point out that most people would just call this arrangement “friendship”, but Roxy’s words ring in his head, and he _remembers_. John has a hard time with anything that doesn’t have a price tag attached, anything that isn’t fundamentally a transaction. This seems like a fair compromise that’s still well within his emotional wheelhouse.

“So, you can call me when you need me—if you start feelin’ low, or something.”

John nods. “You do the same, okay? I mean it! Whatever the time, whatever you need. From now on, it’ll be a two-way street.”

That sounds…nice.

“Got it.”

“And we don’t even have to, uh, consummate anything?" He cringes at his own phrasing but continues before Dirk can call him out on it. "I guess what I’m saying is, this doesn’t _have_ to be a sexual thing between us. We can just, you know, hang out normally—like this!”

That sounds…not _as_ nice.

“Alright. I won’t be the one to point out that we’re currently in your California king bed while you’re naked from the waist up and I’m naked from the waist down.”

“Well, Dirk. You actually just pointed it out.”

Dirk hums, plucking at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt to draw John's attention to it. If there's anything less platonic than being half-naked in bed with a friend, it’s wearing said friend’s old university tee and a borrowed pair of boxers. John’s ears go pink like he knows it too.

“We obviously can still do the normal stuff,” he mumbles, “I just didn’t want you to think that’s all I want you around for. Plus, if I keep you busy, that’ll keep _this_ —” He gestures to Dirk’s general face region, “—from ever happening again, right?”

“Are you askin’ to be my sole proprietor, Crocker? I think we’re starting to edge back into sugar daddy territory, and I need to be upfront; my daddy issues aren’t the kind that come with a kink.”

“Good to know,” John wheezes, “but that’s not what I’m suggesting! We don’t have to put any kind of label on it. Just—if you find yourself strapped for cash, give me a call and we can work something out. We both know that I’m safe!”

Funny. John looks, feels, and sounds like the most dangerous thing that Dirk’s ever encountered, but sure. They’ll go with safe.

“Alright,” he says.

John’s brows are pinched together like he’s already prepared to argue his case but, instead, his mouth falls slack in disbelief. “What? Really?”

Dirk shrugs.

“I was expecting more of a fight, if I’m being honest!”

The only thing Dirk’s fighting right now is a smile, and he only barely wins. Despite the previous night’s events and all the damage that he’s done, he feels at ease. The emotion in his chest isn’t dread, or guilt, or crippling deprecation; it’s light and, for once, he breathes easy. It won’t last long, he knows that much, but for now, he holds on and commits it to memory, branding the sensation into his heart until he’s dizzied with it.

“I’m tired of fighting,” Dirk says, the confession coming easily, and as a shock, especially when finds he truly means it. “Plus,” he continues, hitting John with a languid half-smile, “I can’t deny you drive a hard bargain. I’d be a sucker to turn that down.”

John beams at him, leaning across the bed, and Dirk’s heart ceases to beat, his life flashing before his eyes. One thing plays in his head, over and over like a forbidden mantra. John’s going to kiss him. That’s what’s happening right? They just had a raw feelings jam and now he’s smiling brighter than the sun personified; his lips look so soft and plump, and they’re getting closer. They’ve finally hit a good place, finally on the same page, but kissing? That’s still a terrifying line he can’t bring himself to cross. Dirk blames the low-dosage pain reliever for fucking up his reflexes, making him too sluggish to stop whatever the hell is about to happen.

He closes his eyes.

John presses the back of his hand to Dirk’s forehead, humming thoughtfully.

Dirk cracks one eye open, immediately assaulted by John’s smug, satisfied grin—the one he wears when he thinks he’s told a particularly funny joke. Usually, he hasn’t. But it’s pretty obvious he’s being teased.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking your temperature! You know, making sure you don’t have a fever that’s wildly impairing your judgment.”

Batting his hand away, Dirk swallows down the disconcerting lump of indecision. Is it disappointment or relief that he feels? He’s not sure, so he scoffs, hoping that John doesn’t catch his fluster.

“My judgment is always impaired,” he deadpans. “Why else would I be here?”

“I’m just amazed that you still are!”

If Dirk is being honest, so is he. The bedside clock tells him it’s past noon, inching closer to one, and that means he’s gone over the threshold of his intended stay. Roxy and Jake are probably starting to wonder where he’s at, and shit. Roxy and Jake. He’s going to have to explain this.

“I should actually get going, they’re probably getting worried,” Dirk says, carefully extracting himself from the blankets and sheets.

The hardwood floor is cold on his bare feet, and he suppresses a shiver as he lifts his shirt to check for bruising along his ribs. Yeah. It’s there, and it’s ugly. Dirk drops the shirt and pretends he doesn’t notice the concern etched into John’s face.

“I’ll go with you.”

“What?” Dirk asks, but John’s expression doesn’t change. Oh, he’s not kidding. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

“Well, yeah. I know I don’t _have_ to. I want to.”

“Why?” Dirk presses. The game of twenty questions probably isn’t necessary, but he can’t help but feel a little skeptical—like maybe John doesn’t trust him to head straight home, or worse.

“I haven’t seen Roxy in a while, and I’d like to see where you live,” John says, narrowing his eyes at Dirk’s snort of disapproval, “I also thought maybe you could use the moral support.”

He might not be wrong. Roxy is absolutely going to go ape shit when she sees him, and if he’s lucky, Jake will be out or occupied. Doesn’t matter. Contrary to what he seems to believe, there’s no way in _hell_ Dirk’s letting John Crocker step a single foot inside his janky apartment, but if he wants to accompany him on the ride there, Dirk won’t stop him.

“Okay, fine.” Dirk turns away from John’s pleased grin, eyes finding his old clothes folded neatly on the dresser. His jeans are probably salvageable. “Go get dressed.”

* * *

“You look ridiculous.”

“I’m blending in,” John whisper-hisses, like someone might recognize him by voice alone. He still hasn’t removed the hood to his gray zip-up jacket or taken off his prescription aviators (the ones that he insists are totally, completely different from Dave Lalonde’s trademark shades) even though they’re standing in front of the door to Dirk’s apartment with literally no one else around that might recognize him.

Dirk jiggling the lock. “You look like the Unabomber.”

“Yeah? Well, you look like—”

But Dirk doesn’t get to hear what he’s sure was John’s sickest burn. The front door opens before he even has time to pull the key from the lock, and Dirk has only a millisecond to pray to whatever god is listening, that it’s Roxy on the other side.

He should know by now that praying never renders positive results.

“Dirk! There you are! Rox and I—” Jake’s mouth snaps shut, and Dirk watches as he catalogs each bruise, cut, and scrap that mars his face. Then his eyes lift, zeroing in somewhere over Dirk’s shoulder, and the concern morphs into visible anger.

“Jake,” he tries to warn, but it's too late. Jake’s already shoving past him, grabbing John up by the scruff of his shirt to walk him backward toward the flight of stairs. It all happens so fast, Dirk barely has time to stop it, much less, explain.

Oh, shit, shit, _shit._

_“Jake!”_

Jake ignores him, which isn’t anything new, speaking directly to John through gritted teeth. “Did you do that?”

And John, bless his heart, does nothing but sputter and babble incoherently while he juggles coordinating his steps and prying Jake’s hand from his collar. Neither are going so hot, and Dirk knows he should probably do something to help, but he’s as useful as a deer in headlights, trying to process whatever the _fuck_ is happening.

It clicks the moment John’s shoved against the wall, his shades skittering across the dirty, cracked tile.

“He’s not the one who did this!” Dirk calls out, but Jake’s already frozen in silent recognition. “That’s _John_ —holy shit. Why the fuck would I bring the dude who busted me up _to our apartment?”_

“John?”

“Crocker,” Dirk clarifies, as if Jake doesn’t already know that. As if he’s not currently dealing with the fact that he almost decked America’s favorite funny man square in the face. “Do you think maybe you can let him go?”

“Right! Sorry about that!” Jake apologies, letting him go.

John immediately slumps against the wall, eyes wide with shock. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not! I almost pummeled you down the stairs,” Jake stresses. He turns to Dirk, silently pleading for backup, and thankfully misses the way John pales.

“I wouldn’t have let you get that far, don’t worry,” Dirk tells him, pointedly looking to John. Though, truthfully, he’s not sure he could have stopped it. Jake’s like a bull in a china shop at times, and Dirk’s way too banged up to play matador.

“John?”

A new voice. All three heads turn to look bewildered at Roxy as she stands in the open doorway with unparalleled confusion. Great. Looks like the gang’s all here.

“Roxy?”

“What’s going on?”

Jake takes it upon himself to explain. “Well, you see, I came out guns blazing when I saw that Dirk—”

“Rox, it ain’t what it looks like,” Dirk cuts in the moment Roxy’s sight aligns with his black eye. He bends down, picking up John’s discarded aviators just to escape the scrutiny. “C’mon, let’s go inside before the old hag in Unit B comes out beggin’ for an autograph.”

Nobody argues and thank god for that.

Roxy waits until Dirk’s passing the threshold to push herself from the frame, tagging along at his side. She looks like she wants to say something, or cry, or hit him, or maybe all three. It’s not like he can blame her. He’s been a shitty friend lately, and he can admit that. He’s been too busy groveling in self-loathing and grievance to allow himself to share an ounce of vulnerability with her.

Jake and John follow close behind, and Dirk turns in time to see John slide his regular glasses into place while Jake rambles off more apologies. He’s pretty sure he hears the words, “I’m actually a really big fan of yours!”

This was such a bad idea. Holy shit.

Dirk takes a seat on the futon and Roxy, to his horror, drops down to the floor, leaning back on her hands with her legs outstretched and ankles crossed. He’d really been hoping she would act as a barrier because being sandwiched between John and Jake on this piece of shit futon sounds like both his absolute worst nightmare _and_ his guiltiest fantasy come to life. She winks like she knows it too.

But Jake slaps a friendly hand on John’s shoulder and grins brightly. “Sit! I’ll pull up a chair.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I can just, uh, stand or—”

“Nonsense! I won’t hear it. You’re our guest,” Jake says, charmingly hospitable, as if he hadn’t been one punch away from sending John down a flight of stairs moments ago. “Dirk, scoot over and give Mr. Crocker some room on the couch, would you?”

There’s no need for him to scoot, but he does so anyway, and John awkwardly sits while Jake shuffles off to drag a chair from the kitchen.

“It’s a futon,” Dirk tells him like that’s something that matters, “I sleep here.”

John bounces to test its durability—which is admittedly shit—and forces the fakest smile Dirk’s ever seen in his life, a feat considering how well-practiced he is in the art.

“It feels…” John trails off, hesitating as he searches for the least offensive lie, “…comfortable?”

No, it doesn’t. At this very moment, Dirk can intimately count the number of metal bars under his ass. The mattress is thin, old, and lumpy, and John’s probably sat on more comfortable park benches. But this is his life, and this is his bed, and John needs to see just how different they are. That he's cut from a different cloth.

Maybe now John can finally see what Dirk’s been trying to show him all along.

The realization hits heavy and his heart sinks like a stone to the pit of his stomach. This is it, isn’t it? This is all just another form of self-sabotage. They’ve plugged the hole in the bottom of the boat, and now Dirk’s actively seeking to whittle a new one. Because this is what he does. He ruins things before anyone else can, cursed with a reverse Midas touch.

But maybe it doesn’t have to be that way.

Jake returns with a kitchen chair, straddling it backward like he’s the idealistic substitute teacher about to give a bunch of underprivileged high school kids a lesson in life through unorthodox methods. He looks ridiculous, but it’s that certain brand of outlandishness that Dirk’s always found most endearing, and it tugs a little at this heartstrings to see it now. No matter what happens, he doesn’t want Jake to end up being something he ruins.

“Okay, I guess have some explaining to do.”

“I’d say!”

Roxy nods in agreement. “Spill.”

Dirk opens his mouth and—nothing comes out. He clams up right up while his heart works overtime, beating hard against his chest. How is he supposed to address the issue? He had the entire car ride over to figure it out, and he spent most of it teasing John about his incognito get-up while simultaneously thirsting over it. Maybe not the best use of his time, because now he has three pairs of eyes on him, all waiting expectantly, and he’s got _nothing._

But how exactly do you tell your best friend, your boyfriend, and your not-sugar-daddy, that you put yourself in a dangerous situation while fully knowing the consequences, all because you felt rock bottom wasn’t low enough? There isn’t exactly a precedent available for a quick reference.

John curls his fingers around Dirk’s kneecap and squeezes, smiling when he manages to catch Dirk’s attention. He’s sure it’s meant to be a reassuring gesture, but it feels so wildly intimate at the moment, he can’t bring himself to check whether or not Roxy or Jake were paying attention.

“Go on,” John says under his breath, soft and encouraging. “You got this.”

Right.

He takes a deep breath, thankful that the phantom warmth of John’s hand lingers even after he pulls away. It’s all the encouragement he needs.

“I, uh,” Dirk pauses, looking to each of them.

Roxy.

_Jake._

Neither bothers to mask their emotions, both openly apprehensive, nervous, and concerned. Roxy taps her finger against the ground, her gentle gaze never breaking. Jake worries his lip between his teeth so much, Dirk’s afraid it might start to bleed. And lastly, next to him, the long line of John’s thigh purposely presses against his, radiating comforting warmth.

They _care_.

They care about _him._

That makes him feel incredibly guilty for what he’s about to say.

He takes another breath and says, “Lately, I’ve been feeling alone.”

The confession hangs in the air like a sour note, and Dirk looks to his hands to save himself the pain of looking elsewhere, avoiding any evidence of what he’s sure to be true. Because he can’t help but wonder if his confession stings them like a slap of betrayal. After all, Jake had been trying to reforge a connection, and he’d been doing so well, it’d almost worked. But almost doesn’t count for shit here.

And Roxy? She’s his best friend, he’s not supposed to feel lonely when she’s around. They’ve been through thick and thin together, and still. He couldn't.

“Dirk,” a voice says, and it’s only through the ringing in his ears that he recognizes it as John. A soft command to go on. 

“Shit, sorry.” He wipes at his eye and presses forward, “I guess that’s only part of it. I hit a new low and didn’t know what to do or how to handle it. Everything I tried just made me feel worse, and—I started blaming myself for a lot of things, convincing myself that I deserved to feel that way, but pretty soon, that wasn’t enough either.”

No one says anything. Good. He doesn’t want them to yet.

“So, nobody got the jump on me,” he confesses, “I let this happen. It wasn’t a lapse of judgment on my part or anything because I knew exactly what kind of dude was waitin’ in that car when I got into it—I just. Fuck. I wanted someone to hurt me more than I was hurting myself.”

There it is. Out in the open. The ugliest part of his psyche.

To keep from shaking, Dirk clenches his fists and finally allows himself to look up. Roxy’s face is crumpled, her cheeks red and shiny from silent tears, and Jake’s staring pensively at the ground with flared nostrils and wet eyes. It breaks his heart in ways he didn’t know was possible and it hits him.

They had no idea how badly he was hurting, at least not the true extent of it. All because he hadn’t trusted them enough to tell them.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I’m _sorry_. I should have come to you—”

“Can I just say something?” John places a hand on Dirk’s lower back, out of view of Roxy and Jake. It feels like both a non-verbal apology for the interruption and permission for him to continue. “Admitting to yourself that you’re not okay and that _maybe_ you need some help isn’t easy! And that means admitting it to the people you care about is even harder. I can’t speak for everyone and I know that I’m, uh, new? But, Dirk, I don’t think anyone here is blaming you.”

Dirk blinks back the tears that have been threatening to fall since he’d started talking, and turns to John, surprised to find his eyes aren’t completely dry either.

“It’s okay to be scared of what you’re feeling,” John continues, “I think what matters, is that you’re telling us now.” 

“Yeah. What he said,” Roxy adds, her voice breaking with a sob that she tries to disguise as a laugh. Pulling herself to her knees, she crawls over to the futon and rests her cheek against Dirk’s knee. “We love ya, sweetie—and if I’d known how bad you were hurtin’—”

“No. Stop that.” He threads his fingers through her hair, lightly scratching at her scalp. “I’m not going to hear any apologies from you. This ain’t your fault, got it?”

Roxy turns to hide her face, still trembling, but nods. The last thing he wants is for her to blame herself for any of his emotional shortcomings. But he knows that if the roles were reversed, he’d be doing the same thing. That’s the nature of their relationship. They’re supposed to protect each other. They have since they were kids.

But it’s not her fault, and it’s not—

Jake still hasn’t lifted his head or said a word.

“Jake?” Dirk probes. “You good?”

“I should’ve been asking _you_ that, don’t you think?” He lets out a humorless laugh, finally tearing his gaze away from the dirty carpet, and Dirk realizes why he’d been so hesitant to look up. There’s a myriad of emotion behind Jake’s red-rimmed eyes—guilt, fear, worry. It’s surprising; normally he’s not so easily read.

“I’ve already said, it’s not your—”

“No,” Jake interjects, “Dirk, please forgive me, but I have a hard time believing I didn’t aid in your spiral down the path of self-destruction. As far as I’m concerned, I might as well have been the one that threw the punch giving you that goose egg sitting on your face.”

“Okay, well, that notion’s about as ridiculous as the way you chose to word it.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Dirk says with a note of finality. Despite everything, at the end of the day, it’s not Jake’s fault either. He knows he’s just as complicit in their continued miscommunications. “You didn’t do this to me, Jake.”

“Yes, well. Pray that I never find the man that did,” Jake says, and he then rounds on John. “And as for _you_ —”

Oh, _shit._

At the tone, Roxy lifts her head from Dirk’s leg and sucks in a breath. Next to him, John tenses.

“Thank you,” Jake sighs, his pinched frown smoothing in a smile, “I mean it, truly. Thank you for taking care of him.”

“Oh,” John says with evident relief, his shoulders relaxing. He grins and reaches over to pat Dirk’s thigh. “No need to thank me!”

“Rest assured, I would have done the same,” Jake says, and after a significant pause, adds, “had he chosen to come home last night.”

Roxy says something, or maybe it’s John; Dirk isn’t entirely sure what’s being said or who’s saying it. He can’t hear anything outside of the static in his ears, his entire body buzzing as he works to dislodge his heart from his throat. Because as guileless as Jake pretends to be—and to some extent, is—his words come with obvious recognition. One word, in particular, gives it away.

_Chosen._

Dirk _chose_ to go to John, over the hospital, over Roxy, over _him._ It’s telling to anyone that cares to listen.

And Jake’s listening. 

* * *

“Looks like they’re hitting it off.”

Dirk takes a long drag off the cigarette before passing it back to Roxy. They’ve been outside for a while now, long enough for them to chain smoke a quarter of a pack, watching from the fire escape platform as Jake and John carry on an enthusiastic conversation back inside. Once the earlier discussion had ebbed into a light-hearted discussion, Jake had pounced on the opportunity to drag John into a round of rapid-fire industry questions. So, when Roxy had tugged him toward the living room window, it didn’t take much convincing for Dirk to climb through.

“Terrifying, but I’m not surprised.”

“Yeah,” she laughs, leaning her head against his shoulder. “What is it about him?”

There are a ton of logical explanations Dirk could go with. He’s nice, generous, funny—a little bit of an asshole, but in the most endearing way possible. He’s the kind of presence that just _makes_ you want to get to know him but guarded enough to make you work for it. He’s unreachable, and yet painfully human.

Instead, he says, “I don’t know.”

Roxy lets out a disbelieving little hum next to him and flicks away the ash from the cherry. “I think you _do_ know.”

“Whatever it is, he makes me want to try harder.”

She goes quiet, contemplative, and tosses the butt. “Yeah? For what?”

“Everything,” he says with sudden, overwhelming clarity. “He makes me want to be better.”

Back inside, John and Jake are still going at it, talking ninety-to-nothing, hands flying as they chat about god knows what. Probably movies. No, scratch that, he knows both of them, it’s _definitely_ movies. But when John catches them watching, he pauses long enough to wave.

And Dirk, without missing a beat, waves back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your support and comments and reactions! They keep me going! As always, feedback is appreciated! Look, these boys are _finally_ getting somewhere. Big things are around the corner. Big, big things. >:)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a song i listened to a lot while writing this chapter:  
> "save your tears" by the weeknd
> 
> (PS: hi! please, please, please make sure you have the creator's style enabled for this chapter!)

He shouldn’t be doing this so soon.

But here he is, against his better judgment, because he’s a glutton for his own twisted punishment.

A bead of sweat rolls down Dirk’s cheek, catching in the crook of his mouth. He wipes it away, panting, and focuses on the shift of muscle as Jake moves effortlessly in front of him. It’s been a while since they’ve done this, and Dirk forgets how taxing it is, how exerting. Every limb on his body aches and they’ve only been going at it for less than half an hour. Jake makes it look easy but, then again, he’s a stone’s throw away from Adonis.

If Adonis wore cargo shorts and hiking boots.

“Keep up!” Jake calls from over his shoulder while Dirk soldiers on with burning thighs, trailing behind him. “Almost there.”

“You said that ten minutes ago,” Dirk mutters under his breath, making a valiant attempt to _not_ twist his ankle on a stray rock. His boots aren’t made for hiking—they’re made for loitering against brick walls, kickin’ ass, and lookin’ pretty.

Halfway up the cliffside in Griffith Park, he’s doing none of those things.

He started sweating the moment he stepped out of the cab’s air conditioning into the hot California sun. Jake warned him against the black t-shirt, but did he listen? No. Just like he didn’t listen when Jake suggested he wear a pair of shorts. Now he’s reaping what he sowed—hot, sticky misery.

Which seems to be pretty on par for the kind of turmoil he tends to bring upon himself.

By the time they’ve reached their destination, Dirk’s sworn off smoking, prayed to about ten different gods, and threatened to beat Jake’s perfectly sculpted ass. And Jake, bastard that he is, just tosses him a water bottle from his pack, giving him a minute to catch his breath. He leans against the largest rock he can find, chugs half of it, and pours the rest over his head.

“This was the worst idea,” Dirk pants, eyeing the path back down. Shit, they still have to hike back. At least it’s all downhill. Maybe he’ll just lay flat on his stomach and roll.

Jake slaps his shoulder. “Where’s your sense of adventure!” 

“Must’ve left it at home.”

“Along with your sensible shoes?” He smiles, lightly elbowing Dirk in the rib. “C’mon! It wasn’t all that bad.”

“This falls pretty high in the ranking of my Top Ten Worst Dates.”

“I do believe that all those dates were with me, so, respectfully, fuck off,” Jake says without any real malice, laughing as he pushes himself off the boulder. “But I’ll have you know this isn’t a date. There’s nothing romantic about getting poison ivy on your sensitive bits.”

“Yeah, or gettin’ a rattlesnake bite on your ass cheek.”

“Exactly!” Jake says, beaming. He beckons Dirk over with a flick of his wrist. “Now, stop being such a sourpuss.”

Dirk begrudgingly leaves the safety of his rock and joins Jake on the dangerous ledge. He has to admit, the view is breathtaking. Behind the silhouetted Los Angeles skyline, a setting sun bathes the city in orange, and pink, and blue. Everything looks so small, just a smudged blot against the backdrop of a much bigger world. It’s hard to believe that it can fit so many people, harbor so many lives, so many stories.

It’s—

“Beautiful, huh?” Jake breathes.

“I was going to say humbling.”

“Of course, you were.” He laughs, focusing back to the overlook, hands on his hips. “I come here sometimes when I need to clear my head. It helps me to think.”

“Yeah?” Dirk tilts his head, eyeing Jake up and down. He looks in his element, backlit by the sun. He seems to glow golden, wearing a smile aimed at nothing in particular. There’s something melancholy about it though. Something distant.

Dirk thinks he’s both beautiful and humbling.

“Did’ya just take me out here to think?”

Jake turns, eyes gone a bit wide. “No, I just thought it’d be a nice thing to experience together. We spend so much time looking at dusty old walls, and I believe you once suggested we find a change of scenery.”

Dirk scoffs, swallowing down the tinge of bitterness that rises in his heart. That failed weekend trip feels like so long ago now. He’s over it—but it still stings to remember, mainly due to his own embarrassment. 

“I know that turned out to be a bust,” he continues, “but I think you might have been right.”

“Maybe,” Dirk says, quiet beneath the breeze that winds through the canyon. They lapse into an easy silence, retreating into their own private headspace, while the world stills around them. He watches as a hawk circles the treetops below them; watches as the evening sun brings in tall shadows across the landscape. 

There’s a sense of peace with it, one that he hasn’t felt in a long time. Freeing. It makes sense that Jake would come here to think.

Dirk looks to Jake, fixed with a pensive stare toward the horizon. He can’t begin to fathom what it is Jake’s actually thinking.

It’s a running gag, among the three of them, that his head stays empty, that he doesn’t think at all. He’s prone to saying careless things, lacking in common sense—and in a lot of ways, it’s not an observation without some merit. Jake’s said his fair share of dumb shit to Dirk over the past decade. But he’s not an idiot, and there’s a lot happening beneath that thick skull of his, he’s just exceptionally good at hiding it, and then pretending he’s not.

After all this time, there are parts of Jake that Dirk still can’t figure out—but this, he knows, is self-defense.

“This feels very, uh, Lion King,” Dirk says to break the tension building between them. Never mind the fact that he’s the one that’d been laying the bricks.

“Pardon?”

“I feel like you’re about to tell me everything the light touches is mine or something.”

It’s meant to be a joke, or, at the very least, it’s meant to make Jake smile. He l _oves_ a good movie reference. But the comment falls flat, hanging in the air like a tangible ellipsis.

“I’d give it to you if I could, you know?” Jake says, voice quiet as he hangs his head. “But that’s not very realistic! Is it? It’s too much for one person to ask for.”

“Woah, woah, woah!” Dirk holds up his hands in defense. “Yeah, all of Los Angeles County is a tall order for anyone, and I ain’t askin’ for that.”

“I know. It’s just—”

“Look.” Dirk reaches out, placing a tentative hand at Jake’s elbow, a poor attempt to calm his shaken nerves. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this—actually, I know that I haven’t, and I should have, way before now. But whatever it is you’re able to give? I’m okay with that.”

Jake places his hand over Dirk’s, rubbing calloused fingers over the edges of Dirk’s knuckles, eyes cast downward. He smiles, soft and sad. “What if I can’t give you anything?”

Dirk swallows. He knows, logically, that they’re miles away from a movie reference.

“That’s just not possible. We’ve been through a lot together, I know you.” He slips his touch from Jake’s elbow to his wrist, giving it a light squeeze before pulling away. Maybe it’s his imagination, but he almost feels a twitch from Jake’s fingers, like they wanted him to stay.

Dirk shoves his hands in his pockets, turning to the overlook where the view is safer, less tragic.

“Plus,” he continues. “Who the hell would want this dumpster-fire of a city? I’m good, thanks.”

There’s a beat of silence, a brief moment of reprieve that still hangs heavy.

“I don’t regret it,” Jake says. His smile branches from sad to wistful. “Moving here,” he clarifies, “I wouldn’t change what I’ve done, just maybe how I’ve gone about doing it. If that makes even a lick of sense.”

It does.

“Yeah, I get that.”

The wind speaks next, whistling through the trees, cooling the drying sweat at the nape of Dirk’s neck. A strange static hums in his chest, turning in his gut, one that he doesn’t know how to name, or how to explain. Every word that leaves Jake’s mouth feels raw and honest, more candid in his emotion than Dirk has ever seen him.

This is what he’d always wanted—for them to talk, open and honest. 

But the mood feels almost despondent.

“You’re not about to pull a Scar, are you?”

“Hm?” Jake’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s that?”

Man, he’s really off his movie game tonight.

“Toss me over the cliff,” Dirk says, shrugging. He kicks a pebble over the ledge, listening as it pings off the rocks on the descent. “Sorta fucked up, don’t you think? That he just let go like that.”

Oh, god. He’s really talkin’ out his ass now. Here Jake is, finally, for once, genuinely opening up and Dirk’s just—what? Going on about a 90s animated Disney movie featuring talking lions? Sure, it’s a classic. Simba was everyone’s gay furry awakening, right? But this is just about the worst time to bring that up.

“Sometimes letting go is just about the kindest thing anyone could do,” Jake says, like some bronze Nostradamus.

And Dirk panics.

“Dude, he fuckin’ died.”

Jake chokes back a cough. “Oh, uhm. Right.”

Dirk laughs, nervous, and curls his fingers, digging them into the depths of his pockets. The trail lights have turned on now, the sun inching away, leaving everything in a blue-gray overcast. A cricket chirps. A chopper flies overhead.

“We should probably head back,” he comments, jerking his head toward the pathway leading down the hillside. “You got service up here? Wanna call us a cab or something?”

“Yeah, of course.” Jake pulls out his phone, frowning at it before shoving it back in his pocket. “Just a little while longer?”

Dirk’s fairly certain that was a mosquito he thwarted earlier, and the promised Roxy a full day, starting bright and early in the morning. But Jake tilts his head, equipped with big, pleading doe-eyes. In the evening ambiance, they’re swallowed by the dark, but Dirk knows the color intimately. Green, like the mountainside canopy.

Green, a color not found in the sky.

His heart clenches. Truth be told, it’s been a long time since they’ve been able to just enjoy each other’s company, sans romantic expectations. Jake was his friend before he was his lover, and sometimes.

Sometimes Dirk misses that era in their timeline.

_“I wouldn’t change what I’ve done, just maybe how I’ve gone about doing it.”_

Maybe he’s not the only one.

“Yeah,” Dirk says, smiling softly, lowering himself to the ground. He pats the empty space next to him. “Just for a while.”

* * *

True to her word, Roxy has a whole day planned, ready, and waiting. She’s had them on the go since nine—dragging him all over the city, window shopping, to get a manicure, the works. A real bonafide girl’s day, as she’d called it.

He’s dead tired, but that’s fine. He’d missed spending time with her like this. Plus, he’s got a fresh set of black varnish on his nails. The old shit was chipped so bad, it looked like continents on his fingertips.

“So, what’s the occasion?”

“What?” Roxy asks, innocent. “Can’t a girl take her bestie out to eat?”

“Yeah, sure.” Dirk pauses to look around the restaurant. It’s nicer than what they’re used to. The servers are wearing button-ups and dark ties, and the lights are dimmed while an amber candle flickers on the linen tablecloth. “But this is the kind of place a sugar daddy takes their boujee sidepiece.”

Roxy pops a piece of Grade-A sushi in her mouth. “Speakin’ from experience there, Dirky?”

Dirk grimaces. “At least swallow your food before you make such heinous accusations.”

She makes a show of doing just that and leans across the table to go for one of his pieces. He lets her because she’s paying— _and_ because he’s already eaten his weight in edamame. Roxy knows his weakness, it’s not his fault.

“It was a question, not an accusation, babe.” She clicks her chopsticks at him, grinning. “But go ahead, spill. What’s going on with you and Crocker? Is he your—”

“Nope,” Dirk cuts in, snipping that train of thought right in half. “The next person that brings up sugar daddies again better be talkin’ about those _disgusting_ caramel pops, or I’m gonna go apeshit.”

“No offense,” she says, a precursory statement leading to something no-doubt offensive, “I just think you’ve done _worse_ things for money. Wait. He’s still paying you, right?”

Ah. A precise bullseye on the flaming dartboard of indelicacy.

“First of all, sure, I have, but don’t act like you aren’t just as guilty.”

Roxy raises her glass. “Touché.”

“Second, yeah. He’s still paying me.”

It’s only been a couple of weeks, maybe three, since the _incident_ , as they now call it. His bruises are mostly healed over, just some slight discoloration around his eyes, but nothing concealer can’t patch up. Things have gotten better. For himself. For everyone.

He’s talking to Roxy.

He’s talking to John.

Well, he’s more than talking to John. They still haven’t fucked again—but thanks to the sheer amount of handjobs Dirk’s been offered, it hasn’t affected his ego too much. He’s content to let John sneak a hand down the front of his pants while they watch a movie in his home theater, and he’s just as content to suck John off after. It’s surprisingly casual and easy to get lost in familiarity.

It feels natural.

But his bank account is always there, taunting him in ways that he’s not used to. Seeing his balance constantly in the positive begins to sting just as bad as seeing it in the negative.

Deep down, he knows it’s unfair to be disappointed. This is what he agreed to, and honestly, he’s cool with their arrangement. John never makes him feel like he’s less than, or an ornament, or like another pretty thing that he’s bought. Most of the time, it’s just them hanging out.

Dirk swimming laps, burning in the sun while John tans on a lounge chair, reading an eBook.

Dirk crushing his ass in classic Mario Kart after John buys a Nintendo 64 off eBay, per Dirk’s request because the new shit is too damn complicated.

Dirk assisting John in _Cake Attempt Number Two: This Time He’s Sober._ It had come out edible, which they counted as a win.

Point is, things are good with John, and it’s easy for Dirk to push the contractual aspect of their relationship to the back of his mind and keep it there. Thinking of it in terms of sugar, daddies or otherwise, just feels like a nail in a coffin he doesn't want to admit exists.

And then there’s Jake.

While things are better between them, it’s hard to deny an underlying strain. There’s still a current of uncertainty that buzzes with each interaction; like Jake’s not sure he _can_ and Dirk’s not sure he wants him to. But they’d been at the disadvantage, hadn’t they? Stumbling out of the gate already on uneven footing, trapezing a tightrope already on the verge of snapping.

After John had left, Jake looked at him differently. Not bad, but not good. He’d looked at him like a puzzle.

Dirk thinks back to their hike, to the way Jake had looked at him then, to the subtle shift he’d felt. It'd felt like _something._ It'd felt like—

Like if maybe he weren’t deathly allergic to vulnerability, that conversation could’ve gone somewhere important.

Instead, they spent another hour or so alternating between comfortable silence and cracking jokes, reminding each other in subtle, unspoken ways, that they still care for one another, while neither of them acknowledged the elephant in the room.

Things have changed.

“Hellllllo,” Roxy drawls, voice sing-song. “Earth to D-Stri!”

Dirk’s head jerks up, back to reality, just in time to block another attempt at blatant food thievery. He brandishes his chopstick like a sword and Roxy sits back, pouting.

“Steal another bite and I won’t be comin’ in peace,” he says.

She makes a face, pretending to gag. “Gross.”

“You went there, not me.” He pushes his fried rice around on his plate, feigning interest. This is his favorite joint, but they don’t usually have the funds to splurge this hardcore. Jake took him here for an anniversary once, back when they first moved to LA. Jesus Christ, was he even old enough to drink back then? Not like it matters, he wouldn’t have anyway, but the thought still makes him feel ancient.

He doubts she knows that.

“Stop staring all sad and gloomy at your rice,” Roxy says, huffing. “You’re probably hurting its feelings, lookin’ so disappointed like that. Apologize to your food.”

“I’m sorry,” Dirk says to the Dragon roll between his chopsticks, grave and serious. He pops it in his mouth, swallowing with remorse.

“You’re such a drama queen. Seriously, though. What’s up? You seem a little out of it.” She taps her nails against the table, worrying her lip. “Things are okay between you and John, right?”

“Yeah.” Dirk glances at his phone lying face-up on the table, at the notification from the man himself that he still hasn’t opened, only because he doesn’t want to be rude. It’s a new phone, screen uncracked and bigger than he’s used to. A gift from John. “We’re good.”

Roxy hums, contemplative.

Dirk frowns, suddenly remembering the night before, replaying a conversation that’d taken place when he’d been on the cusp of sleep.

_“He’s good to you, isn’t he? I want to be sure.”_

_“Does he make you happy?”_

Yes, Dirk had answered honestly to both questions, only half-awake. And told Jake, _“So do you.”_

Not in the same way, Dirk hadn’t said. But the guilt of that thought weighs heavy on his heart even now.

He brushes it off.

“By the way, why’s everyone so worried about me and John? Jake had a lot of questions about him too.” He pauses, trying not to notice the way Roxy flinches and looks away. “He, uh, took me on a hike? Jake, not John.”

“No offense to John, I love the guy to pieces, but no clarification needed.” Roxy laughs, but the mirth dies almost immediately. “How did that go?”

“It was fine,” Dirk lies, and then—"Weird. It was weird, Rox.”

“He say anything?”

“He said lots of stuff.” Dirk shoves another slice of roll into his mouth. Now he’s just stress-eating. “Most of it even made sense.” 

“I see, I see.” She nods her head. “Gotcha.”

Something is…up. He’s not sure what but—he knows Roxy Lalonde like the back of his hand. She’s got a shit poker face.

Dirk narrows his eyes. “Was there something he was supposed to say?”

That gets a reaction. Roxy busies herself by taking a drink, her face then going red as she shakes it. “No! No, I mean. I don’t think so? You know how Jakey is! He’s always sayin’ something crazy, slingin’ around silly words like— _Gadzooks!”_

She takes another long drink, this time draining the glass.

“So,” Dirk says evenly. “He _was_ supposed to tell me something.”

Roxy bites her lip, nose scrunching up. It’d be cute if it weren’t so damn concerning. Even in the dim, upscale mood-lighting, Dirk can tell she’s lit up scarlet. And she’s wringing that poor napkin within an inch of its life.

She reaches across the table for his glass of water, and he lets her have it. The cogs in his mind are turning, turning, turning—until they halt at a horrifying conclusion.

The hike.

The sunset.

The nerves.

Dirk feels like he’s going to be sick.

“Jake wasn't...Uh. Jake wasn't going to propose, was he?”

Roxy nearly sprays him with a mouthful of water, but catches herself right in time, choking it all down with loud, hacking coughs. A couple seated to their left turns to look. Their server pauses in their busy stride but, apparently, decides that they don’t get paid enough for whatever the hell’s happening, and keeps going.

He respectfully allows Roxy to get her bearings.

“Babe, I love ya, really I do, but you’re a moron with a capital M.” She stops, sitting up a little straighter, her face growing dark and serious. “Wait. Did he say something to make you think that?”

“Not particularly. If anything, you were the one givin’ off that vibe.” When the tension leaves Roxy’s shoulders, he continues, “I think he might have been trying to tell me something, but to be honest, I got freaked out and started talking about The Lion King.”

“Uhm, okay, putting a pin in that—what the fuck, Dirk?—but can I ask you something super-duper serious right now?” She reaches across the table and takes his hand. He’s pretty sure her sleeve is in his soy sauce bowl, but whatever.

He nods. “Go for it.”

“Would you have…wanted that?”

The question slaps him like an open palm, and Dirk jerks his hand away, afraid she’ll be able to tell how his blood runs cold. There’d been a time, not that long ago, where he’d have given the world to see Jake English down on one knee; to think, for even a fraction of a second, that he’d want to put a ring on his finger; to lawfully call him his.

But, like most things, he realizes that ship has sailed too far from the harbor.

Dirk looks to Roxy, his best friend, the one person he can always lay his soul bare to, and gives her an answer that not even six months ago, he couldn’t have. Not honestly, at least.

“No.”

And if feels good.

It feels _freeing_.

And Dirk expects…some kind of reaction. Shock? Horror? Astonishment? He gets none of that, only Roxy leaning back in her chair to rapidly blink, an odd smile twitching at the corner of her perfectly pink lips. It looks like relief, more than anything.

“I still love Jake,” Dirk insists. “There’s a part of me that thinks I always will. But the nature of that love diverged from romantic a long time ago, and I didn’t want to see it. We just kept tryin’ to make it work, only to break shit further. I need him in my life, I do.” He runs a hand down his face, breathing through the tightness that squeezes inside his chest.

“I just,” he continues, “I don’t think I need him like I thought I did.”

It hurts to admit. A part of him thinks it sounds like a betrayal—to himself, to Jake, to everything they’ve been through, fought for and against. But he knows it’s the truth, and he knows that Jake’s known it for longer than he has. Roxy too, if he had to guess.

“I love both of you,” she starts, a slight waver in her voice. “You’re my best friend, but Jake—he’s like my big bro, ya know? Watching the two of you, especially these last couple of years, has been super frustrating. It’s like watching two people who care about each other, run around in circles just to tear each other apart. What ya’ll have been doing—it’s not working anymore, babe. I’m just glad you see that now.”

“Yeah,” Dirk rasps out, running a knuckle beneath his eye. He always tears up when Roxy does, and in the low amber lighting, he can see her eyes glistening. “You’re not spittin’ anything but straight facts.”

He knows now, the name of the feeling he’d experienced on his hike with Jake.

Catharsis.

* * *

They make it home at a quarter till eight.

He can tell that something is wrong the moment they step up to the shitty, ragged welcome mat. Roxy’s been stalling since they left the restaurant—dragging him to the corner store, to a food cart selling fried pies, to a goddamn souvenir shop. Even now she tugs on his arm, causing him to miss the lock.

“Rox—what the hell?”

“Sorry, sorry!” She steps back, arms wrapping around her slender frame, folding in on herself. “Maybe let’s not go in just yet, okay?”

Dirk’s hand pauses on the doorknob. He looks to Roxy, checking to make sure she’s still Roxy, and that he’s not dealin’ with an _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ situation. Terrible fuckin’ movie. Thanks, Jake.

“You want to hang out here for a bit?” he asks, tone flat. “Where would you like to sit? By the dirty syringe or the suspicious pile of blankets? Ladies first.”

“Ugh. You’re such an asshole sometimes, you know that? A real jerk.”

“I’ve been told,” he says, shrugging and turning back to the door. Roxy grabs his wrist.

“Wait, I didn’t mean that.”

_“Roxy.”_

“Dirk.” Her grip tightens. “Listen, I just want to prepare you for—”

He opens the door.

He opens the door because he knows, deep down, that she’s trying to stop him from doing exactly that. She’s hiding something and his anxiety can’t take it. Something is waiting on the other side of the door and she doesn’t want him to see—so, he can probably rule out a surprise party. It’s not his birthday anyway.

Maybe there’s a hitman in the living room, waiting to take him out.

Maybe that would be kinder.

Because what he does see is—nothing, or almost nothing.

To a random visitor, nothing would seem amiss. The cramped space is as orderly as they can manage while serving as a common space and bedroom. Not messy, but not exactly tidy. Well lived-in.

But Dirk notices. He notices right off the fuckin’ bat.

Things are missing.

Specifically, Jake’s things are missing.

“Dirk.”

He takes one robotic step in, dropping the sack of pointless shit Roxy accumulated throughout the day’s venture.

He takes another step.

And another.

Until he’s at the bookcase that’d housed Jake’s movie collection. All that’s left now are empty shelves lined with dust, marking where it used to be. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know the posters are gone—or look in the drawers to find them half-empty.

“He was supposed to tell you,” Roxy says through watery hiccups. “Dirk, I’m sorry. He was supposed to tell you.”

She puts a hand on his shoulder, and even though her touch is light, it lands too heavy. He jerks away, stepping from the case before he does something irrevocably stupid like break it apart. He doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to act like a child. He doesn’t want to be his fuckin’ dad.

“You knew,” Dirk says, and it’s not a question. He keeps his back turned, unable to look at her. “How long?”

“I—”

“Never mind.” He pulls his phone out, sends a text, and heads to the door. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Wait, where are you going?”

Dirk lets the door shut behind him. He hears Roxy hot on his trail, following him into the breezeway, calling for him from the top of the stairwell. But by the time he gets to the outside exit, her shouts sound like static. Everything does. The rush of traffic. The usual noises of the night. Dirk doesn’t hear anything.

He’s not even sure he feels anything.

Shock, he figures.

Because it turns out—he’d been wrong.

It wasn’t catharsis.

It was closure.

From the confines of his pocket, Dirk’s phone pings with an incoming text.

John  
  
Can I come over?  
  
 **Delivered** yeah!  
  
:)  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, THEY DID IT. kinda?
> 
> dirk's just feeling a little betrayed right now, but he'll be okay.  
> i also updated a few older chapters to have the iOS messaging for their text conversations. i'm not done going through all of them yet, but chapter 8 looks pretty cool! 
> 
> also, i have been quoting "dude, he fuckin' died" all week, thank you.
> 
> as always, i am overwhelmed and so thankful for all the amazing feedback you guys give! i'm so glad you're enjoying this rollercoaster.


	16. Chapter 16

The car ride to John’s is somehow both the longest and shortest thing that Dirk’s ever experienced.

His driver is somewhat obnoxious, trying to make small talk over the radio that’s turned just a little too loud. He asks him how his night is going, and Dirk thinks, for a moment, about answering him truthfully. He thinks about saying his boyfriend just left him and that now he’s going to a client’s house to fuck the pain away.

Except, that wouldn’t exactly be the truth, and so, he doesn’t. He spends the rest of the ride listening to Billboard Chart pop music and nodding his head with polite responses. By the time they pull up, he still hasn’t made sense of the turmoil in his head. Is he happy? Sad? Angry? Relieved?

Who the hell knows—he just wants out of the car.

John’s leaning against the front entrance’s doorframe before Dirk even makes it to the steps, smiling and waiting like a beacon of light. Looks like he’s dressed in his pajamas already, the charming set with blue and white stripes—and at eight o’clock? Seriously? Dirk makes a mental note to tease him about that one later. Old man.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” John says once he’s in earshot. “You keep—Dirk? Are you okay?”

What?

Oh, right. He’d done a bit of crying on his way over. His eyes are probably red-rimmed and puffy. Jesus, that’s embarrassing. But he figures John should be used to this look by now. At least he’s not as broken as last time. Maybe he’s not broken at all.

Again—who the hell knows? He’s still having a hard time sorting through and identifying his mix of emotions. Seeing John isn’t doing much to help that either. If anything, he’s kicked up a mess where they’d finally begun to settle.

“Yeah, I just—” Dirk stops himself, blinking at John’s open arms. After a moment, he awkwardly steps into them, allowing himself to be swept into a tight embrace, melting. It’s far too easy to get lost in. “Let’s talk about this inside, alright?”

“Okay.” John sounds worried, hesitant. “Do you, uhm, need anything?”

Hah.

Yeah. He needs a helluva whole lot—the list is practically endless. Too many things to name and not enough time. John’s hands rub up and down his back, squeezing him, engulfing him in the warm, woodsy scent of his cologne. He needs this, he thinks, more than anything.

But how can he ask for that? How can he ask for _more?_

“Care if I take a shower?” Dirk asks.

John kisses the top of his head, featherlight, but Dirk’s knees nearly buckle with the weight of it. He curls his fingers into the back of John’s shirt, only then realizing he’s been hugging back.

“I can do you one better.”

* * *

There aren’t many things Dirk can think of that he would classify as “better than a shower.”

But a nice bath inches pretty damn close.

Especially a bath in a jacuzzi tub that’s filled to the brim with bubbles and hot water, while an even hotter guy massages your scalp. Lavender. Steam. Steady fingers running through his hair as he sinks beneath the suds and soap, bracketed by John’s legs where he sits on the ledge with his ridiculous pajamas rolled to the knee.

Yeah, this pretty much takes the cake. 

From the front door to the bathroom, John had stayed silent, and he kept that silence as he ran the bath and stripped Dirk carefully from his clothes. Even now, he’s quiet, but Dirk knows he has questions. They feel like tangible, sentient beings hanging in the air around them.

But Dirk knows that John won’t be the one to break his reserve, curious as he probably is.

He’s more of a “talk now” and “think later” kind of guy, Dirk’s noticed, ebbing just on the cusp of impolite. It’s surprising that he finds it more endearing than annoying or rude though; how it ends up being just another tally mark on the ever-growing list of things Dirk admires about him. 

But it’s time to break the spell. It’s crawled on long enough. 

“Jake left,” Dirk says.

The fingers carding through his hair come to a sudden halt. Behind him, John takes a deep breath. “You mean…?”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, saving John the burden of having to ask. “Packed all his shit up while I was out of the house and split. Rox kept me nice and occupied while he did it too.”

“I don’t,” John starts, sputtering as his hands start to move again, clumsier than the last. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say. Condolences aren’t really in order—this has been a long time comin’. I don’t even know that I’m sad.” He says the words, means them, and yet his stomach still flips with uneasiness. It’s not really sadness that he feels. “I’m just hurt, I guess. Feel betrayed more than anything.”

“He didn’t _say_ anything? Like give any hints? There had to have been, I don’t know, some sort of sign!”

Dirk laughs, a hollow sound that’s devoid of humor. Was there a sign? Yeah.

“Our whole relationship was one sign after the other. But there was, yeah. I think he was trying to break the news yesterday and ended up chickening out.” He pauses, staring hard at the bubbles foaming around the peaks of his kneecaps, breaking through the water like boney hills.

He’d replayed their hike over, and over, and over again in his head on the way over as much as he could, down to every minute detail. He does it again, now.

“I’m not tryin’ to make excuses for him—I’ve done enough of that—but I think I was just as guilty in that whole ordeal. I knew what he was doing the moment he suggested we take a hike, but I was in some serious denial. It was like, uh.” Dirk cringes. “Have you seen the movie Air Bud?”

“Is that about the dog that plays…volleyball?”

“Basketball,” Dirk corrects; because if Jake English has left him with anything, it’s a mental database of useless movie trivia. “I think there’s a sequel or something where he plays volleyball, but that’s not important. Let me paint you a picture, bro. They take the dog into the woods and tells him to get, but the dog just hangs on and refuses until, finally, the kid distracts him with a pudding cup and runs off.”

“And you’re…the basketball-playing dog?”

“Basically.”

“And Roxy was…the pudding cup?”

“Roxy was the pudding cup,” he confirms. 

“I see,” John says, in a way that makes it apparent he doesn’t see anything at all. His hands drop to Dirk’s shoulders like they’ve given up. “I’m sorry. I don’t really know how I’m supposed to react right now. Are you upset? Because—your boyfriend just broke up with you! But you’re talking about extremely niche dog movies, and I’m just a little bit confused, I think.”

“I’m not talking about extremely niche dog movies, John. I’m making an analogy.” Dirk shifts uncomfortably in the tub, careful not to slosh the water too much. The suds have started to dissipate, leaving the water just murky enough to obscure his nudity underneath. “But to answer your question, I don’t know? I’d realized something right before it happened—that I’m finally ready to move on, and that I _wanted_ it to be over.”

And it’s there that he has a revelation.

He’s prepared his heart for Jake’s departure more than once. The fact that he up and left without a word? That barely fractures Dirk’s heart. It’s classic, textbook Jake. Borderline selfish with his emotional cowardice. If anything, it’s comforting to know there’s still some semblance of consistency left between them, even when that consistency lies within the inconsistency of it all.

It’s something else that gnaws at his raw heart.

It’s _someone_ else.

“Roxy,” Dirk says, “Roxy knew he was leaving, and she didn’t tell me. She took me on a fuckin’ pity date while Jake ghosted.”

Roxy has always been Jake’s friend too—even back when they were kids—and he knows that it’s juvenile to try and rank himself. But their bond has always been deeper, hasn’t it? It’s been more. It was Dirk who comforted her when her mom drank too much. She was who he first came out to. She was the first person to make him feel safe. Jake was behind a screen most of their childhood, but Dirk was right there.

He’s never had siblings, or a parent worth anything, and that’s why his relationship with Roxy has always been different.

She’s his _family_.

“Have you talked to her about his?” John asks, careful in his tone. “Did you tell her how it made you feel?”

“Mmm.” Dirk closes his eyes as John’s hands start kneading the sore muscles of his shoulders, slipping down the porcelain. “What’s this? Dr. Crocker back in action?”

“I mean it!” John squeezes a bit too hard, laughing to himself. “Okay, maybe I spent too much time with Rose at that charity event.”

Dirk knows. He saw the pictures all over social media—John in a smart suit with both Lalondes. No, he doesn’t constantly check John’s feed. That’d be weird.

“Thought so,” he says. 

“You’re deflecting,” John adds. “That’s my professional opinion, anyway. Did you tell Roxy that she upset you?”

Beneath the water, Dirk picks violently at his cuticle. “I think I made it pretty fuckin’ obvious.”

“So, you didn’t!”

“No, but—” He stops to think about it. Did he? He just came home to find his boyfriend of ten years up and left and then flew the coop himself.

Shit.

“Do you think it’s possible Roxy just thought you were upset over Jake?” John asks, not unkindly. “I’m going to be honest, and don’t take this the wrong way! But I’m not one-hundred percent convinced that you’re totally okay with him leaving. Okay, maybe it’s _how_ he did it but, you guys had history! And Jake talked pretty highly of you—”

Dirk grabs both sides of the tub, scooting himself back upright. The water churns just like the feeling in his stomach.

“What?”

“Uh, yeah? You and Roxy were outside forever, Dirk! We talked about you for a little bit—after a pretty lengthy conversation about our favorite performances. You just happened to be another common interest, I guess.”

Damnit, he hates when John makes so much sense.

“I hate to ask but, what’d he say?” 

“Nothing I didn’t already know. You know, that you’re stubborn and have shit taste in movies— _hey!_ ” John swats at him. “Okay, okay! Sorry! Stop splashing me.”

“Fine. Wouldn’t want to get those designer jammies wet.”

“Shut up,” John mumbles. “Anyway, it wasn’t anything bad. Mostly he just, uh, told me really arbitrary stuff? Like how you like your eggs and what kind of soup to make if you get sick. It was—oh man, I’m just now realizing something. Dirk, I’m sorry.”

Sorry? What does John have to be sorry for? He’s not the one causing Dirk’s throat to close up, or causing the tightness in his chest, or the way his hands begin to tremble.

_Jake._

Jake had been tying knots in loose threads, trying to ensure Dirk wouldn’t unravel without him.

Slowly, Dirk draws his knees to his chest, dropping his head to rest against them. Up until this moment, he’d been fine with the banter, the carelessness of the conversation. It helped to ease the pain, the shock of what’s happened to him. He’d been ready for the fallout, just not so soon. It’s disorienting. The rug has been ripped right out from beneath him.

And he’s tumbled right into John’s arms—just like Jake knew that he would.

Jesus Christ, is he that fuckin’ transparent? Or is John—did Jake know that John would take care of him after just one conversation?

Are _they_ that transparent? 

“I don’t know Jake, so I can’t really speak for him,” John says, voice low and quiet. His hands move in the same manner, rubbing damp fingertips up Dirk’s back, grazing over the knobs of his spine where he’s doubled over in the bath. Every touch is gentle. Careful.

“But I know Roxy well enough,” he continues, “and I feel pretty confident in saying that she didn’t do any of this with ill intention. I can’t imagine either of them staging a coup against you, honestly. Protect you, maybe? Not that I’m trying to make excuses or invalidate your feelings! They definitely didn’t go about it in the right way—but, okay, I’m going to stop talking now.”

Yeah, someone’s definitely been reading self-help books. But John isn’t wrong, he just doesn’t understand why he’s right. He lacks the context for it.

Dirk clenches his fist to keep them from shaking.

“It’s fine,” he tells him, “I know. The truth is, no one in our merry band of assholes knows how to communicate properly—and, like I said, I’m not makin’ excuses for them either, or myself. It’s just the truth. None of us exactly had a great frame of reference for it growing up.”

Jake’s isolation. Roxy’s drunk mother. Dirk’s father, who spoke with fists.

“Yeah, I get that,” John says, and Dirk knows it’s true. The genuine sincerity in his voice is hard to miss, and the little pieces of John’s past he’s let slip from his closely guarded heart are never far from Dirk’s mind.

“Jake pretty much raised himself, his grandma worked too much to ever be home. She had him doin’ online schooling and so the dude got next to no face-to-face human interaction. What I’m sayin’ is, he sucks at communication but it ain’t entirely his fault. No one taught him that shit and me and Rox weren’t any better off.”

Behind him, John stays silent. Waiting; like he knows that Dirk isn’t finished.

And he’s not.

“Roxy,” he continues. “She’s a people-pleaser. Her mom wasn’t bad, I guess. Just drunk.” He doesn’t say much more than that, John is her friend and it’s not his story to tell. “But, thinking about it, it was probably hard for her to try and play the mediator between me and Jake. She probably tore herself up tryin’ to do right by us both.”

After that, Dirk goes quiet—thinking, suppressing the guilt. Maybe he owes Roxy an apology.

Scratch that. He _does._

“And what about you?”

Dirk blinks. “What?”

“What about you?” John asks again. “If you’re willing to share. No pressure. I guess, times like this, I realize how little I actually know about your past.”

Oh.

Dirk stares into the murky water. It’s gone cold now, the bubbles are almost gone completely, and the tips of his fingers are beginning to prune. He can’t think of anything to say—except that John’s right, and that he knows just as little about him in return. They’re the same that way, he figures, closely guarded and content to live in the now. But sometimes there’s no point in lookin’ back if it isn’t gonna turn into a pillar of salt. That’s how you hurt yourself.

“Another time,” Dirk tells him. “It’s not a fun story.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize.”

“Yeah, maybe not—but, uh, I’m sorry if I wasn’t much help. I’m not really good at this kind of stuff.”

He is, Dirk thinks. He’s better at it than most and damn, even if he wasn’t, he’s trying. That has to count for something because it sure counts a helluva whole lot for Dirk. This is probably the kindest thing anyone has done for him in a while, and he’s not asking for anything in return.

But Dirk wants to give it.

He wants to give John everything—or what’s left of it, anyway.

“Hey,” he says, gripping the sides of the tub to lift himself from the water. It’s big enough to easily maneuver without the threat of busting his ass, and so he turns the best he can, sloshing in the water until he’s facing John, between his knees. There, he keeps himself steady on John’s thighs, soaking his pajamas through with wet hands.

John blinks down at him, cheeks and eyes dark. “Time to get out?”

It’s time to do something, and they might need to get out of the bath to do it, but for now, Dirk squeezes John’s thighs and lifts himself closer.

“Thanks for tonight,” he mutters, gaze transfixed on soft lips. “I mean it.”

“Yeah, uhm.” Those soft lips then get caught between John’s teeth as he bites—a nervous habit he needs to knock. It’s embarrassing how often Dirk’s fantasized about biting them himself. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

“Friends,” Dirk repeats, and the word tastes like poison on his tongue. He’d been the one to say if first, and while it’s not wholly untrue, it’s not exactly what they are. He knows that now.

They’re more.

They have been for a while.

And if the way John’s looking at him means anything, he knows it too. In retrospect, it makes sense—the way John had deflated when Dirk used that exact term to describe the confusing status of their relationship weeks ago. Friend just doesn’t cut it anymore. John didn’t want to be his friend then, and now?

“I don’t want to be your friend,” Dirk says, cupping John’s cheeks when he startles, smoothing out the crease of a frown with his thumb.

For a moment, Dirk doesn’t care about how naked he is in comparison, how vulnerable he feels nude and dripping wet while John’s still in his clothes, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pants rolled past his knees. He doesn’t care that his heart flutters in his chest, or how it's an exact mirror to the way John’s eyelashes flutter in response to his unwavering stare. A red string of fate pulls taut between them, so close to its breaking point.

“What?” John breathes. His voice sounds distant, hazy, trembling with anticipation.

“Not tonight,” Dirk tells him. “No more rules.”

There’s a spark of recognition right before he dives in, and with that, John meets him halfway, hands scrambling to find purchase on Dirk’s bare hips as their mouths meet. Dirk kisses him with a fervent urgency that’s returned in full, and he wastes no time in parting his lips, immediately succumbing to John’s lead.

It’s sloppy. It’s rushed. It’s months and months of desperate yearning released at once.

And it’s perfect—even with John’s hands clumsily trying to grip his still-wet skin; even with Dirk’s eager sighing; even when John slips off the edge of the tub, sliding into the basin, fully-clothed. Neither of them cares enough to stop, or to breathe, or to think. The only thing that Dirk comprehends is how good it feels to be kissed like this, and even that he can barely comprehend at all.

But when Dirk’s hands find the first button of John’s shirt, John finally breaks away, staring up with glazed-over eyes and kiss-swollen lips.

He says only one thing—“Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” Dirk agrees, despite how enticing a thought getting bent over in John’s big, nice bathroom sounds.

Some other time, perhaps. Right now, he’s a man on a mission.

They pause to get out of the bath, careful not to slip, and John strips down right there, leaving his water-logged clothes to drape and dry over the edge. He looks good naked, Dirk’s always known that, but there’s something about the wet, sudsy shine to his skin that really makes Dirk salivate. It takes just about everything in him not to drop to his knees.

Better things wait, he tells himself.

The trip to the bedroom is a short one, full of fleeting moments with John’s hands all over him. John has always been particularly good at kissing only where he’s allowed—Dirk’s neck, his chest, his nipples, and belly—but now that he’s been given permission, he doesn’t seem to want to leave Dirk’s mouth.

That’s fine. This is fine.

This is good.

They make it relatively unscathed to the bed and Dirk’s pushed to the mattress, climbed over, and, all the while, John still barely breaks away. He’s a freight train that can’t be stopped, and Dirk learns how clever his tongue really is. He bites and kisses, humming pleased, encouraging sounds against Dirk’s slack, panting mouth until he’s dizzy.

Holy shit. He’s never been so fuckin’ turned on by a kiss. Not since he was a horny teenager.

It all happens in an adrenaline-rushed blur, Dirk barely has time to process it. He’s being kissed within an inch of his life—like it might kill John to stop—while a hand works steadily between his legs. One finger, and then two, and by the third, he’s ready. He’s beyond ready.

When John leans back to tear the foil, Dirk places a hand in the center of his chest and pushes him away. For a moment, John looks surprised, an empty condom wrapped hanging between his teeth, but Dirk keeps pushing until he gets a good read of the room and realizes what it is that he’s supposed to be doing and finally moves to lay flat on his back.

There we go.

Dirk climbs on top. “Let me,” he says.

John doesn’t protest, only breathes Dirk’s name, chanting it along with a litany of curses and praise as he rides him. His fingers grip Dirk’s hips and thighs hard enough to leave a peppered smattering of bruises on fair skin. These are the bruises that Dirk won’t mind wearing. He may never want to take them off. When they fade, he’ll ask for more.

Because Dirk wants to always be the one to make John feel good; to be the one to make him lose control; to make him lose sight of the demons that sometimes strangle him. 

He wants to be the only one.

And it’s that thought that really scares him, and it’s that thought that sends falling him over the edge all too soon. He comes embarrassingly quick and without the aid of his hand, coating John’s stomach as his heart stutters and his thighs burn.

He doesn’t stop. He keeps going, even when John has to help his languid movements, getting two hands on his ass to hoist him up and down until they’re both shaking—Dirk with overstimulation, and John with his impending release. 

And right before John lets go, he drags Dirk down into another kiss.

* * *

“Hey, uh, if this was just a…rebound thing? That’s okay. I understand, but—”

Dirk smacks John’s bare chest from his comfortable, and convenient, position cradled beneath his arm. The slap rings loud, but that’s mostly the sweat. He didn’t really hit him that hard. That doesn’t stop John from wincing and pouting like an overgrown baby though.

Whatever. Dirk doesn’t feel bad about it. That particular train of thought needed to be stopped at all costs.

“Is this your idea of pillow talk?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Gotta be honest, bro. Accusations like that will really kill the nice post-coital vibe we have goin’ on.”

John gives him an undignified huff. “It’s not an accusation! I’m just saying!”

And, okay, Dirk can see where he has a point. He shows up, red-faced and freshly broken up with and jumps John’s bones for the first time in months. Maybe he can see where some wires are being crossed.

“Trust me, I don’t just hand out tickets to the Dirk Strider rodeo. Give me a little more credit than that.”

“Okay, okay, sheesh,” John says, quiet and fond. “Just wanted to make sure you don’t regret it, I guess.”

That’s laughable, Dirk thinks as he focuses on the gentle caress of John’s fingers along his arm. His life has been full of regrets, missed chances, and bad mistakes—but John isn’t one of them. Maybe that’s the sort of sentiment he’s supposed to share in a time like this, but he doesn’t. The intimacy is already overflowing, and these are new waters. Best not to jump in headfirst.

Plus, he doesn’t want to rush this or ruin it. But the very least he can do is offer some reassurance.

“I don’t regret it. Do you think that’s the first time I’ve thought about kissin’ you, Crocker?” Dirk looks up in time to see John duck his head, smiling demurely to himself. “Use your brain, I know it’s in there.”

“Wow, you sure know how to flatter a guy.”

“Normally I charge extra for that,” Dirk says, too quick to catch the implication. John’s sweet smile falters. “Wait. Just to be clear, I don’t want to be paid for this.”

“Okay, good. I—I don’t either.”

Dirk hears the fear in his voice, the reluctance, and realizes that it’s probably been a long time since John’s slept with someone without the exchange of money. Dirk had Jake, sparse as his company tended to be in the last several years, but John?

This is new for him.

“So, this is—uhm, what does this mean?”

Dirk shrugs. “Whatever you want it to, but I think maybe we should just chill out, not make a big deal out of it. If we start attaching labels, shit could get messy and, to be honest, I like what we have now and don’t want to ruin it.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, releasing a heavy breath through his nose. “Yeah, and you just got out of a long-term relationship and I’ve never had a real relationship in my life—and uh, I don’t know how to say this but, no matter what I do, the media is gonna have a spotlight on it.”

Even in the warmth of John’s arms, Dirk goes cold.

Somehow, in all of their combined trials and tribulations, that’s the one thing that Dirk hadn’t put much stock in. Maybe it’s because this all seemed like a pipe dream for so long, he didn’t let his mind wander with too many hypotheticals.

Of course, on some level, he knew that John wasn’t out to the public; that the paparazzi was obsessed with his relationship status, or lack thereof. But the very real repercussions of someone like John settling down with a male prostitute didn’t really click or feel real.

Because it felt impossible, and when things feel impossible, they usually are.

And anyway, just because Dirk crossed that line and kissed him, doesn’t mean John’s now aching to put a ring on it. He’s fine with being the dirty secret. An upgrade is an upgrade, right?

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he says—and yet, he’s still unsure of whether or not he truly means it. “I get it.”

That, at least, isn’t a lie.

“I’d need to tell my PR agent—oh, god. I’ll have to tell Dave. He’s going to kill me!”

“Oh? That’s interesting. All that homoerotic subtext in his work, I didn’t really peg him for being a big fan of homophobia.”

“What?” John cranes his neck down in what _should_ be an unflattering angle, blinking in a stupor. “Oh! No, it’s not like that. Okay, this is embarrassing but, uhm. When we were in college. We, _you know.”_

Dirk sits right the fuck up. “Hold on. _What?”_

John hides his face in the palm of his hands, but it doesn’t do much good. He’s blushin’ to his fingertips. “Don’t make me say it.”

“I’m a little hurt,” Dirk sighs. “Here I thought I was your big, gay awakening.”

“You were!” John drops his hands away, and damn if it doesn’t reveal a look of genuine sincerity. “It was just a blowjob! We were drunk—and—oh my god, I can’t believe I’m telling you this. Now he’s really going to kill me.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be our little secret.” Dirk whistles. “Damn. You know, if I sold that information to the media, I’d be just as rich as you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You’d be fine. They’d still find a way to paint it as a bromance.”

“It _is_ a bromance,” John insists. “I didn’t—uh…”

Dirk raises an eyebrow. “Get off?”

“No, I did. I didn’t…”

Understanding clicks and Dirk tries really, really hard not to laugh. He fails pretty miserably. “Oh my god,” he wheezes. “You didn’t reciprocate. You gave Dave Lalonde blue balls. That’s fuckin’ hilarious.”

“I’m not gay!” John blurts, realizes what he’s said, and backtracks. “I wasn’t gay?”

“And you’re still not. Bisexuality exists, bro.”

“Shut up,” John says with a smile. “And you said my pillow talk was bad?”

“It’s horrendous.”

“Shut up,” he says again, this time pulling Dirk down into a kiss.

It’s almost unnerving how light it makes Dirk feel, to just be kissed for the sake of kissing. No money, no obligation, no chore. John simply does it because, in that moment, he wanted to. For a moment, it allows Dirk to exist in a whole where it’s just the two of them. An alternate reality where they’re just two dudes that met in a coffee shop and exchanged numbers.

An alternate reality where this thing between them is viable.

He’ll take what he can get. He’ll take all of it, everything that John’s willing to give, and he’ll do his best not smoother the flame with his trademark overbearing nature.

“By the way,” John says against his lips, “I’m supposed to go to New York this weekend.”

This weekend? That’s in two days. Not much for a heads up. But, right, that’s the life of the rich and famous. His heart still drops just a little, and he smiles to hide the way it pierces.

“Nice.”

“I was hoping,” John says, voice sing-song in between peppered kisses—like he’s buttering Dirk up for some big request. “I was hoping maybe you’d come with me? If you aren’t busy.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“Oh,” Dirk says.

“If you don’t want to, that’s fine! I was going to ask before all this but, uh, well. Now I’d really like you to go. If you want.”

“No, I do. I just wasn’t expecting that.”

John smiles, toothy and bright—the smile that Dirk loves because it doesn’t feel forced or rehearsed. The smile that’s reserved for him in private moments, not for the camera or interviewers. Easy, and unrushed. Beautiful.

“What do you say?” John asks.

He’ll need to sort things out with Roxy—but honestly, some time away will help him compartmentalize the hurt still lingering in his heart. Staying in an empty apartment, in a bed he used to share, might not be great for his mental stability. He doubts Jake will show back up anytime soon, but that’s a confrontation he’s still not ready to have.

What does he say?

What _can_ he say?

There’s really only ever been one option when it comes to John, hasn’t there?

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it only took them 80k to kiss! You go boys.
> 
> Thank you for all the feedback! I know I say it every chapter, but I truly appreciate it more than words can describe. You keep me going! And if you ever want to yell about these idiots, you can find me on instagram (@ectobaby) and tumblr (/ectoobaby)!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new character emerges.

The door closes softly behind him—no loud creak; Jake must have finally fixed it before he left.

Huh. That’s a strange thought. Even stranger, Dirk almost wishes that he hadn’t. At least there’d be some air of familiarity because, as he stands there, eyes scanning the room, he finds almost none.

Amazing how things can look the same but _feel_ so different. It’s not like Jake had a ton of stuff. The room isn’t left completely desolate and barren in his departure. Just little things here and there, enough to throw Dirk off.

Different. That’s really the only way to describe it.

But it looks like Roxy has taken it upon herself to bridge those gaps. The posters on the wall are rearranged to fill in blank spaces, same with the movies and books on the shelves. There’s a new comforter folded on the futon. Jake hadn’t taken the old one, but he recognizes her attempt at a fresh start, the subtle attempts at erasing lingering parts of him. Anything she thinks might cause him pain.

He’s not sure if that’s a good call—or if it even matters, or if he even cares—but he appreciates the sentiment all the same.

“Rox? You home?”

Dirk waits, listens, and receives nothing but silence and the electric hum of appliances. Somewhere below him, people are shouting. Somewhere on the street, a horn blares. Inside the house, there’s nothing.

He knows that Roxy would never pull a Jake—she would _never_ abandon him like that.

That doesn’t stop him from dropping his jacket haphazardly to the ground, racing toward her bedroom door. It’s ajar and he knocks once, barely waiting before pushing it open. His stomach flips—some real gold medal gymnastics shit—and settles when he finds it untouched. Clothes scattered about, draped over furniture, polaroid pictures dangling from fishing wire and fairy lights. Dirk takes a deep breath and slumps against the doorframe, smiling in relief.

Damn. Jake really rattled him, huh? Shook loose the part of his brain terrified of abandonment, of not being good enough. He’s glad to know that’s not true. There are still people that want him around and honestly? Even after everything, he’d still put Jake into that category.

Hah. If Roxy heard that, she’d probably call it growth. Look at him go.

Dirk pulls her door shut, the fear and trepidation in his gut replaced with a blooming warmth. He’s almost back in the living room when he hears the front door rattle and sees a familiar, slender foot slip through the crack to push it open. Roxy bursts through, both arms weighed down with reusable grocery bags, heaving from her walk up the steps. She sucks in a sharp breath the moment that she realizes she’s not alone, tears welling in her eyes.

“Dirk?” The bags drop to the ground where she stands, a can of pasta sauce making a valiant attempt to roll across the floor. In seconds, she’s in Dirk’s arms, head buried against his chest as she mumbles apology, after apology, after apology.

Dirk doesn’t want to hear any of them. He’s already forgiven her.

He rests his chin against her head, looking over her faded pink hair to the spilled groceries. There are some orange soda cans; a couple packs of the fancy ramen, as she calls it; plenty of snacks. Damn. She went out and bought his favorite things.

“Stop it,” he mumbles, kissing the crown of her head. “You don’t have to apologize—you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Jake told me he was going to leave,” she says into his shirt, “I should have told you!”

“Hey.” Dirk pulls her away, just enough to force a little eye contact, and smiles. He needs her to know that he’s serious and that he’s okay. “It’s alright. I’m assumin’ Jake told you not to tell me—”

“He said _he_ was going to tell you.” 

“Yeah, and he didn’t. Rox, that’s on him. Not you.”

“But—”

“No buts,” he says. “Seriously, it’s alright. I’m not gonna stand here and act like I wasn’t hurt, but that was in the moment. I took some time and thought it over, talked it out—”

Roxy tilts her head up, sniffing. “With John?”

“Yeah,” Dirk says. One word that comes out lower than he expected, fond against his own volition. “He helped talk me down. You know, for an emotional human train wreck, he’s pretty good at shit like that.”

A smile breaks through Roxy’s frown, and she laughs, wiping the edge of her eye with a knuckle. “Ya’ll are more alike than either of you realize. I’m glad you were able to go to him—” She pauses, her smile disappearing. Dirk can tell what she’s thinking; that he should’ve been able to go to her.

She continues before he can ebb away those troublesome, incorrect thoughts, “I think Jake knew that you would.”

“I think so too,” he says, sighing to relieve the pressure in his chest. “He saw John as a safety net. It could’ve got really ugly if he’d been wrong.”

Roxy nods her head, taking a step back to drag Dirk to the futon, guiding him down to sit. She pulls the new blanket over their laps. Cornflower blue.

Dirk wonders if that’d been a conscious decision on her part.

“You’re lucky,” she says, quiet into his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“That John feels the same way.”

Not even the cornflower blue blanket can stop Dirk’s blood from running cold, his body going rigid as his heart seizes. He knows Roxy senses his sudden spike of anxiety because he hears her let out a confused little hum, perking up from where she’s leaning against him. It’s like she doesn’t even realize the implication of her words—the _monumental_ implication.

“What?”

Super smooth, Dirk. Super nonchalant.

“What? You didn’t know?” She sounds genuinely perplexed as she asks. “C’mon, Dirk. Surely you’ve realized it by now.”

Has he?

Yeah, probably so—but it’d been safer to ignore it. He couldn’t. He _can’t._ And John? That goes double for him.

“John’s got a bit of a savior complex,” Roxy says, and the bricks in Dirk’s mental fortress stumble to the ground with resounding clarity. “He thinks of himself as the hero! It’s cute, but like, ninety percent of his problem, ya know? That’s why he likes people like us.”

People like us.

_People like us._

So, that’s what she meant. He’s lucky that John also saw himself as Dirk’s safety net, his savior.

No.

That’s not it. John needs him too. This is a two-way street that their navigating together, and maybe it’s just for the security of mutual support, but that’s necessarily a bad thing. He doesn’t mind it. Feeling needed feels nice, refreshing, and helps to balance out the fact that he needs John too. He can admit that.

John isn’t using him—and he truly doesn’t think that’s what Roxy meant to imply. Because if John’s the hero, that means someone has to be the villain.

“Right,” he says, swallowing.

What were they talking about again?

“I’m glad you came home though,” she says, “I was almost afraid you wouldn’t.”

Good, a subject change.

“You know I wouldn’t leave you behind.” Dirk knocks shoulders with her, his smile reassuring. “Plus, where else would I go?” Looking around, he sighs. “This place is a dump, but it’s our home. I think I’d miss it a little bit.”

“Yeah, right.” Roxy rolls her eyes. “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t pack a bag and sleep in John’s bathtub if he asked you to.”

“It _is_ a nice tub,” he tells her, injecting a healthy dose of innuendo, complete with an eyebrow wiggle. “Very spacious. Nice jets. Ten out of ten.”

Roxy’s mouth drops open in a comical gasp, followed by a trill of laughter. “Oh, em, gee. Here I was _worried_ about you, while you were out having a blast, fuckin’ John Crocker in his fancy-schmancy bathtub.”

“Technically we fucked in his fancy-schmancy bed.”

“Vom, Dirk.” Roxy makes a face, pretending like she doesn’t love all the gross details of his escapades. After a moment, it fades into something softer. Sincere. “You’re okay though, right?”

Dirk looks around the room. It’d be a lie to say it didn’t feel a little melancholy to see Jake’s presence scrubbed clean. Vanished, as if he’d never been there at all. Of course, it hurts—but it doesn’t feel like the end.

It feels like a beginning.

“Yeah,” he tells her. “Yeah, I’m going to be fine. I was pissed that he just up and left but, I don’t know. It’s Jake. I can’t sit here and act like I understand his thought process, but maybe he just felt like that was the easiest way to end things? With how I’ve acted in the past, I can’t blame him for being apprehensive to do it.”

Just six months ago, a face-to-face confrontation would’ve sent Dirk into a spiraling meltdown. He knows he would’ve caused a scene. Begged. Cried. Some real desperate shit to get him to stay.

“I see what you mean,” Roxy says, nose twitching. “That doesn’t make it right. I’m sorry—”

“Hey,” he warns. “What’d I say? Look, I’m not angry with Jake. Irritated? Sure. But not angry, and I don’t want you to be either. Jake, he’s…”

“Yeah,” she agrees.

“Yeah.”

It’s an unspoken understanding that passes between them. There’s nothing to be said, and that’s really all there is to say about it. Dirk can’t pretend to understand it fully, but he knows Jake cares. He just cares differently—much differently—than he does. It hadn’t been _wrong_ , just incompatible.

They’re both to blame for dragging it out as long as they did, only hurting themselves.

But the room still feels empty, and a decade doesn’t disappear overnight. It’s a good thing that he’s going to be—

“Shit. Before I forget,” Dirk says, abruptly standing up. Fuck, Jake _better_ not have taken their only suitcase. “I’m going out of town this weekend.”

“Wait, what? With John?”

“Yeah,” Dirk answers, rummaging in the hall closet. Damn. They really need to do some spring cleaning. He finds the suitcase, untouched, shoved in the back beneath a plastic tub of Christmas ornaments. “He’s taking me to New York City.”

“He’s taking you to _New York City?”_

Dirk kneels down to unzip it. “That’s what he said.”

“Holy _shit,”_ Roxy squeals. “I don’t wanna sound like an ass, but did he say way? Just because?”

“I guess so. He said he’d been meaning to ask me—which I’m assuming means he planned all this before I showed up on his doorstep like a weepy, vulnerable damsel in distress.” Dirk pulls out a shirt tucked in one of the many pockets. He’d been looking for that, huh. When he looks up, he finds Roxy staring, mouth hung open in disbelief. “What?”

“Dirk. John Crocker asked you to go to New York City with him.”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, slow and like a question. “It’s not that big of a deal?”

Only now he’s not so sure because the harder she stares, the more it starts to feel like a big deal. Shit. Should he be panicking? _Is_ this weird?

“No, no, yeah,” she says, rapid-fire. “It’s not!”

Dirk raises an eyebrow.

“Okay,” Roxy relents. “It’s kinda a big deal? John is like, super private about his life? Especially his professional life? I think he likes to pretend he’s something that he’s not when he’s around, uh, company. It just seems like a huge deal that he’s willing to expand his horizons and stuff!”

“I don’t think going to New York counts as expanding his horizons,” he says, steadily growing self-conscious. “John does stuff like this all the time. Kinda goes hand in hand with the whole celebrity thing.”

“No shit, dummy. That’s not the point—that’s not the _exciting_ part!” A manic sort of smile breaks on Roxy’s face as she claps her hands together, all of a sudden horrifyingly giddy. “The difference is, he’s taking you!”

Dirk drags the emptied suitcase over to the chest of drawers that doubles as the entertainment center, just to busy himself and his rapidly increasing heartbeat. “Maybe he just wants the company,” he says, although it doesn’t sound very convincing, even to his own ears.

Roxy rolls her eyes. “Sorry, babe, but your dick ain’t _that_ bomb.”

“Apparently it is.”

“Maybe so,” she says, sliding off the futon and shuffling over on her knees to kneel beside him. “But I can’t say the same for your fashion choices. Here, lemme help you pack, then Crocker won’t be able to take his hands off you.”

“Fine.” Dirk sits back and lets her do the work—she’s better at this than him anyway. He watches her shovel through his neatly folded clothes, pulling things out and throwing them back in. There’s a method to her madness, surely. She’s way too focused for there not to be.

“Hey,” he says, nudging her with his foot. “You’ll be okay while I’m gone?”

“It’s just the weekend, right? I think I can handle myself.”

That’s not what he’s worried about. He knows more than anyone that Roxy is a force to be reckoned with—she’s more than capable of handling herself and about ten others. People like to underestimate her, but she’s sharp and witty, resourceful, and strong. The best out of their former merry band of three.

“I don’t want you to get lonely, that’s all.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna get empty nest syndrome or anything. Swear, I’ll be just fine.” She flashes a bright smile, but it doesn’t hold for long. “You act like I’ve never been lonely before.”

Something about it pierces his heart like a dagger—from the way her gazes shifts downward, the hesitant way she smooths her fingers over his shirt bunched in her lap, the way she attempts to regain traction on her smile. They’ve been together, the three of them, for longer than he can remember, but he’s never stopped to consider how that might’ve felt from her side. He and Jake were a couple, and Roxy? Never would he call her a third wheel but, shit. Is that what she sometimes felt like? He hasn’t known her to date around. It’s always been business, a lot like John.

Without thinking, Dirk reaches out and pulls Roxy to him, hugging her to his chest.

“I don’t say it enough but,” he mumbles, “I love you, Rox. Thanks.”

“For what?” She sounds surprised, voice wavering, but her arms eventually wrap around him to return the embrace.

“Puttin’ up with me. I don’t think I deserve you sometimes.”

“Stop it,” she says, sniffing, patting on Dirk’s back like she’s trying to tap-out. “C’mon, don’t start up the waterworks again.”

“Say it.”

“I love you too,” she says, and Dirk hugs her so tight, he squeezes out a breathless laugh. “Let me go! You need to pack.”

Dirk obeys, allowing her to slip from his arms. He doesn’t comment when she brushes away fresh tears, or when she packs the shirt he hates. It’s too tight, just like the feeling in his chest.

She’ll be okay.

 _They’ll_ be okay.

Part of him wonders about Jake—where he’s at; if _he’s_ okay. It feels wrong to ask. If he wanted Dirk to know, he would have left some kind of note or sent a text. The last thing he wants to do is continue the cycle of suffocation. But he needs to know, at the very least, that Jake’s not with some stranger he met on the internet.

“You don’t have to go into detail but, uh.” Dirk pauses, watching Roxy tense up. She must know what he’s going to ask. He does it anyway. “Do you know where Jake is?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.” That’s vague enough to make Dirk’s stomach twist. He should drop it. “Is he alright? I’m not going to go looking for him. I just wanted to make sure he was…safe.”

“You remember his cousin that got in touch with him a while back?”

“Jade?” Dirk asks. At least, he thinks that was her name—a cousin from his mom’s side that tracked him down through the power of the internet. They wrote to each other often, snail mail, which tells Dirk she’s just as charmingly quirky as Jake is.

“Yeah! She moved a few hours north of here and invited him to visit. I’m guessin’ she offered an extended stay when he told her what he planned on doing—but I think that’s about the safest place for him to be. He never really had any close family growing up, ya know? And she seems like a real sweet girl. This might be good for him!” 

Huh. So, he’s really gone. To be honest, Dirk assumed he’d fucked off to some seedy hostel.

“You think he’ll ever come back?”

Roxy shrugs, zipping up the compartment housing his underwear and socks. “I don’t know. I kinda hope so, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he answers, surprised by his own honesty. “He’s still my friend. Completely losing him was the one thing I was most afraid of.”

“I think he just needs time, and so do you.” She finishes her packing, patting the suitcase with pride. “I’m glad you’re getting out. New York will be so fun! I bet John will take you to all the classy joints! I’ll be honest, I’m a little jelly.”

“I wish I could take you with us.” He means it. The three of them would have fun, he thinks. It might not be too late to ask John—he adores Roxy, he probably wouldn’t mind at all.

“Nah,” she says before he can whip out his phone. “Maybe next time. You go on ahead. I haven’t had time to myself in like a gazillion years. This will be my own mini-vacation.”

“Thanks,” Dirk says, deadpan.

“You know I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His smile comes easy and, despite everything, he feels good.

He feels _happy._

He’s not sure how that’s even possible, given the past forty-eight hours, but he is. The smile he wears isn’t part of some performative charade. There’s no mask slipped over the bridge of his nose. For once, the space inside his chest feels light. Hopeful. Easy to breathe.

There’s just one more thing.

“Hey, Rox?”

“Yeah?”

Dirk looks over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. “The groceries?”

* * *

John sends for him early Friday morning, along with a vague, very _John_ , itinerary. They’ll be taking off around noon, arriving around eight—Dirk has to temporarily remind himself about time zones. When they get in, they’ll immediately head to the hotel and the rest? That’s a mystery.

Logically, Dirk knows that John will be busy most of the weekend, but he seems pretty confident that he’ll be able to carve out enough “quality” time for the two of them. Getting out of the city is enough for Dirk, even if it’s just to go to another city. It’ll be nice. Easier to pretend he’s not still getting paid for his time. Bitter as that thought feels, it’s not.

It’s fine, really.

Dirk knows exactly who he is. _John_ knows exactly who he is.

The guy on John’s porch? Apparently has no fuckin’ clue.

“Excuse me. Who the hell are you?”

He could be asking this stranger the same thing—Dirk’s never seen him before in his life. His suit is too nice to be household help but too rumpled to be anyone _too_ high-up on the social ladder. It looks like a suit for show, like in his off-time he prefers frumpy sweaters and sweatpants. Like John, his hair is dark and unruly, his skin dark as well, though more olive in tone—yet they don’t look at all related.

A distant cousin, maybe?

“Well?” he prompts.

“Uh?” Dirk blinks away the sudden realization that he’s been staring. “Dirk?”

“Are you _asking_ me?”

Okay, so he’s just some dick. Great. That’s fine. Dirk has plenty of experience handling ‘em. He shifts the weight of his luggage, fully prepared to snap back, when he sees the man’s eyes drop to his suitcase, an honest-to-god vein visibly protruding from his temple.

“What is—”

“Karkat!” John appears at the front door, smiling wide at the man—Karkat, apparently. It takes a few moments for his gaze to travel to the foot of the steps. Impossibly, his smile gets bigger. “Oh, and Dirk!”

And just like that, Karkat seemingly forgets that Dirk is there at all. He turns to John, arms crossed over his chest. Next to him, Dirk notices just how short he is in comparison.

“I told you to be ready to leave at nine,” he says, looking at his watch. “It’s almost ten.”

“Relax, it’s not like the pilot is going to leave without us.” John turns to Dirk and…winks? Jesus Christ. He’s in a good mood. “Perks of having a private jet.”

“You have a private jet?” Dirk asks, simultaneous with Karkat’s rough accusation of—“ _You_ don’t have a private jet, the Crocker family does.”

Someone should probably tell Karkat that most families own minivans with honor student bumper stickers, not private jets. But that someone isn’t going to be Dirk. The thing is, Karkat has all the energy of a cute puppy snarled to bite you. Some might find it worth the risk, but Dirk prefers to keep his fingers.

“Anyway,” Karkat continues, clearly exasperated as he gestures to his left. “Who is this and why does he have a suitcase?”

John blinks. “I told you I was bringing a friend.”

They're talking like he’s not there. Great.

“I know that,” Karkat barks. “I assumed you’d be taking the usual dumbass in aviators or, you know, literally anyone else that I’ve _actually_ met.”

“You don’t know all of my friends!”

“I know you pay for most of them—” Karkat stops, eyes growing wide. Slowly, he turns to look at Dirk. “Jesus fucking Christ, John—John, please tell me you met him working behind the counter at Trader Joe’s.”

Frowning, Dirk looks down at himself. Does he look like he works at Trader Joe’s? He’d been instructed to dress comfy and casual.

“Okay,” John says with a shit-eating grin as he walks down the short flight of stairs to sling an arm around Dirk’s shoulder. “We met at Trader Joe’s. Happy?”

Karkat doesn’t look happy, not in the slightest. He looks like he’s about to blow a gasket.

“We didn’t,” Dirk says.

“You don’t say!” Karkat says, so overly cheerful it borders painful, bearing teeth that almost look sharp. Damn, he really is a feral little puppy. Turning back to John, he says, “I think it goes without saying—you’re out of your mind. He can’t go with us.”

_Us?_

Dirk nudges John to get his attention, leaning in to speak privately. “He’s going too?”

“Of course, I am.” So much for privacy. “I’m his PR agent. This is literally my job.”

This is literally Dirk’s job too, but he figures it’s wiser _not_ to say that. If he’s gleaned anything from this conversation, it’s that Karkat knows John and his bad habits extremely well. There’s also an air of familiarity in the way he speaks to him—overly harsh but, comfortable? Like old friends.

But public relations? For such a snappy guy, Dirk really didn’t see that coming. Gotta hand it to him though, he must do a bang-up job. John’s reputation is squeaky clean, despite the mess he can sometimes be behind closed doors.

“Don’t worry about Karkat,” John whispers in his ear. “I’ve booked him a separate room.”

Dirk sighs in relief. John’s PR agent third-wheeling their whole weekend away would be an absolute nightmare. “No offense but, thank god.” 

“I can still hear you.”

“Good,” John says, ushering Dirk and his suitcase toward the sleek black car parked in the driveway. “Let’s get your stuff squared away. Is that it? Just one suitcase?”

“He’s not going!” Karkat calls from the porch.

“Uh,” Dirk says, ignoring it. “Yeah. It’s just the weekend. Didn’t think I needed to bring the lion, the witch, _and_ the wardrobe.”

John nods like he understands—he definitely doesn’t—and opens the trunk. It’s a good thing that it’s full-size because it’s already jam-packed with a whole set of luggage. Looks like a family of four on their way to Disneyland.

“Uhm.” John rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Karkat pre-packed for me,” he says; as if his gratuitous amount of luggage warranted an explanation. “Some of it is his too!”

“It’s cool.” Dirk shrugs and heaves his own suitcase up, squeezing it in. “Roxy packed mine.”

“Did the two of you make up?”

“Yeah, we’re all good.”

It’s a struggle to get the trunk closed, but John manages, hoisting himself up to smash it down with his ass for good measure. It’s unnecessary, but totally worth it to hear Karkat’s indignant squawk. Something tells Dirk that this is the only reason he’d done it, and John’s following grin confirms the theory.

“So.” He whistles, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “That guy.”

“Who? Karkat? Yeah, I should have maybe warned you about him. He’s actually pretty sweet under all that sour!”

“Right,” Dirk says, slowly while trying not to sound too skeptical. “I’m taking it you told him about us—or?”

John glances away, nervously drumming his fingers against the trunk. “Sorta? Not really. He knows that I’ve been paying to see someone. I didn’t really go into details, but it’s one of the reasons I wanted you to come.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I think he already knows that I’m not your therapist.”

Laughing, John runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” 

“And you’re okay with this?” Dirk steps closer, slotting himself between John’s parted thighs, a hand on each knee. It’s a test of sorts, to see how intimate he can be; how close he can get before John panics. It’s a particularly dangerous game of gay chicken.

Dirk watches him hesitate, gaze darting to the side, and when Karkat is nowhere to be seen, John relaxes.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, it’s going to take some getting used to, but I really did want the two of you to meet. It’s important to me.” 

Dirk nods in solemn understanding, the conclusion not hard to jump to. It makes sense, he figures. “Because if anything gets out, it’ll be easier to spin something for the media if he already knows who I am.”

Tilting his head, John frowns. “Well, yeah, but that’s not—Dirk, that’s not the only reason that I—”

“Alright! Break it up!” Karkat yells, clapping his hands, startling Dirk and John apart. He then points at Dirk in particular. “You call a cab and head home. Actually, I don’t give a shit where you go. You can stay here for all I care! But you _aren’t_ going with us.”

* * *

The flight to New York City ends up being painfully awkward.

Turns out, private jets are a lot smaller than the average plane, and so he'd been graced with a front-row seat to the in-flight Karkat temper tantrum. It’d mostly consisted of him aggressively pecking away at his phone and shooting John death glares, grumbling under his breath. John had attempted to pacify this sordid display of emotion by putting on a cheesy rom-com—something Dirk thought would surely piss him off even more.

But it hadn’t. It’d worked like a charm.

Which is how Dirk learns that the surly, shouty, Karkat Vantas, PR agent supreme, is a total sucker for chick flicks.

It’s hilariously endearing if Dirk’s being honest—and he finds it fascinating to watch John interact with someone other than Roxy or himself, naturally and with no cameras involved. Their perfectly timed banter reflects years of familiarity and, oddly enough, trust.

Karkat’s even started to warm up to Dirk by the time they reach the hotel. He trails behind them, quiet and pensive, and takes his card key out of his pocket with a sigh, eyeing them both. Their suites are side-by-side, but not connected. John had made sure to point that out on the elevator ride up.

“I’m guessing I can’t convince you to room with me?” he asks Dirk, jet-lagged and defeated.

“Sorry, bro. Not a chance.”

Karkat gives John a withering look next. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“There shouldn’t be anything hard about it!” John slaps their card key against the detector a little harder than Dirk thinks is strictly necessary. “I brought a friend with me on a business trip. Is that a crime?”

A stretched silence follows a sequence of beeps as their respective doors flash green and unlock. They all know the answer to that, John especially. It should be that simple, that easy, but it’s not. The media would chew him up and spit him out if they caught wind of this. Karkat would need to be one helluva spin doctor—because it’s not just the coming out thing.

It’s the fact that Dirk’s an escort.

But none of them want to bring up _that_ elephant in the hallway. Not even Karkat.

Instead, he pinches the bridge of his nose, starring down at his foot wedged in the door. “I’ll figure out a good cover story so that you two can actually be seen in public together. Just try to be careful until then, okay? At least keep your clothes on until the bellhop gets here with the luggage, for Christ’s sake.”

“Thanks for the tip!” John says, overly cheery, and disappears into their room, leaving Dirk to hover in the doorway with Karkat staring at him expectantly. Asshole.

“I won’t let him be reckless,” Dirk says because he feels like he should say _something._ “I’m pretty good at being discreet.”

Karkat narrows his eyes, mouth twitching like he’s ready to say something snappy. In the end, his snarl falls slack, his face going softer than Dirk’s ever seen it as he peers past the doorway that John walked into.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he says finally—both his gaze and words piercing Dirk like a dagger. He’s been saying it all night but this time it feels personal, not performative. But before Dirk can bounce back to respond, he adds, “I’m glad you did though. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him like this.”

Oh.

Something flutters back to life in Dirk’s chest. “Like what?”

And just like that, all of Karkat’s softness dissipates, his comical scowl dropping right back into place. “Figure it out yourself, dumbass,” he growls, stepping into his room and slamming the door.

Dirk lingers in the doorway, blinking at the empty space where John’s gruff PR agent had just been standing. Maybe he’s starting to see the appeal. Karkat is oddly reassuring, in a way that doesn’t make sense at all. Dirk shouldn’t feel comforted by the words of a dude that just called him a dumbass, right?

“Later, bro,” he says to no one.

In the room, he finds John sprawled out, planted face first on the king-size bed. Dirk thinks he’s gone and passed out until he hears him speak, voice muffled by the duvet.

“Thought maybe he killed you.”

“Nah,” Dirk says, sitting on the edge of the bed. He pokes at the bottom of John’s socked foot. “Pretty sure he doesn’t want to add ‘covering up a murder' to the list of shit he has to do this weekend.”

“Saved by a full itinerary.”

“I think he might be closer to killing you than me,” Dirk says, right as someone knocks on the door. “Damn. That’s probably him.”

It’s actually the bellboy, bringing up their heap of luggage. John thanks him, tips him with a crisp bill from his wallet, and starts stripping as soon as the door is shut again. First, the shirt comes off, tossed in the alcove of a closet, and then the pants, which receive the same treatment—until he’s standing in only his underwear.

Well. Okay, then.

There’s nothing sexy about it though—well, maybe that’s not true. John _is_ inherently sexy in Dirk’s eyes, so maybe he’s a biased source. The point is, it’s not a striptease. The moment he’s mostly naked, John's dragging his feet back to bed, catching Dirk’s shoulder as he crawls up on the mattress. Dirk, apparently, doesn’t get the luxury of taking off his travel clothes. Not when John assumes the position of big spoon, to pull Dirk into his arms and nuzzle against his neck.

“This feels familiar, huh?”

Dirk wiggles in his grip. “You bein’ naked while I’m still clothed? Not really.”

“No,” he says, pressing a kiss behind Dirk’s ear that makes him shiver. “Being in a hotel like this.”

Oh. Yeah.

“Been a while.”

John shifts behind him, leaning over to kiss his cheek next. Dirk, helpless to the affection, turns his head so that the next one lands on his mouth, turning in John’s arms to face him.

“I couldn’t do that last time,” John mutters against his lips. “Or this.”

And with that, he kisses Dirk fully, openly, and Dirk’s helpless to that too.

It doesn’t last long; doesn’t go beyond their mouths moving in tandem, a little light petting from John up Dirk’s side. It stops on his hip, John squeezing apologetically as he pulls away.

“I don’t know if I’m up for anything tonight, I’m sorry. I’m pretty tired.”

Dirk shrugs. “We’ve had a long day.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Hey, just because we’re in a bed, doesn’t mean we have to do anything more than this. I’m not going to be disappointed.”

John takes a moment to look at him, blinking like he’s trying to process what’s just been said. Maybe he’s also realizing how far they’ve both come; how different this time is than the last time they found themselves in a hotel bed. But when the moment passes, John dips his head to bury it in the crook of Dirk’s neck like he’s hiding.

“I’m really, really glad you decided to come,” he says, pressing the words against Dirk’s skin. They stick there like a brand, searing themselves into walls of his heart.

Funny. Thousands of miles away, and Dirk finally feels at home.

“Me too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you saw me talking about dirkjohnkat on tumblr, no you didn't. Hahaha.
> 
> Bonus imagery: Karkat trying to extract John from one of Dave's parties, only for Dave to find him first and talk his ear off. At some point, he drunkenly mentions that college blowjob he gave John, and Karkat spends the next six months having night terrors about that getting out.
> 
> Anyway, I love you all.  
> Thank you for still reading this. :') <3


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